


Coded Expressions

by Sarahtoo



Series: Coded Expressions [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Character Background, F/M, Other, sort of casefic, what did Jack do during the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack receives a telegram from an old war buddy with information that sends him running away from Melbourne to help, despite the fact that he and Phryne are about to take the next step in their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about while discussing with Fire_Sign the fact that we both wanted to challenge ourselves with casefic. And then we were talking about Phryne leaving on the rusty plane and I asked the question, “What if it had been Jack who left? What would Phryne do?” This kind of answers that question and it’s kind of a casefic as well, so maybe it covers both things. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> A million thank yous to Fire_Sign for the beta and to TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy and Collingwoodgirl, without whose help the title of this fic would be something like "To Hell With It, I'm Posting". You guys are the best!

**Day One**

_At least I managed to afford a sleeper. That’s something, isn’t it?_ Jack sighed and tucked his carpetbag into the small cupboard beside the miniature private bath. He looked around the tiny space—it was barely bigger than the single bed that folded up into a seat for the daytime hours. His mouth twisted wryly. If he was trading a night in Phryne Fisher’s bed for a three-day train journey to the middle of nowhere, at least he had his own space in which to mope about the change of plans.

Jack laid his briefcase on the bed, then hung up his overcoat and hat and shrugged out of his jacket. It was early evening and he wouldn’t be going anywhere, so he didn’t feel the need to stay fully dressed. Dropping to the edge of the bed, he toed off his shoes, then plumped up the pillow and put it against the wall, swinging his feet up and drawing his briefcase toward him. He reached inside to pull out the telegram.

 

> _CAMBRAI -(stop)- 27.2.18 –(stop)- EMOLUMENT –(stop)- SIMON_

 

There were very few people that Jack would drop everything to help, but Simon Rowell was one of them. And this telegram told him that Simon had, somehow, found urgent information on the disappearance of a man they both had served with during the war. Jack stared at the telegram in his hands, wishing that it said more, though he thought he understood why it didn’t. Nick Johnstone had disappeared while on a solo reconaissance mission back in 1918. He’d been presumed dead—dying was an all-too-common occurrence—and they’d mourned him, but they’d never known just what happened to him.

Simon still worked for Intelligence; Jack didn’t know what Simon did, only that he had continued the work they’d done in the war after his return to Australia. _“I don’t have any other skills, Jacko,” Simon had said on the ship back. “All I know how to do is spook around and gather dirt.”_

Now it seemed he’d found something about Nick’s disappearance. And whatever it was, it was not only urgent—“emolument” was telegraph code they’d learned in wartime that meant “think you had better not wait”—but he had brought it to Jack rather than to the third surviving member of their team, Rodger Mitchell. That was likely because Rodg was also still in Intelligence, and higher level than Simon. If what Simon had found put Nick in a bad light, he wouldn’t want to go through official channels with it. Jack had called Rodg, but off the record—something Simon couldn’t do—and Rodg had come through.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Jack had told him, “but if he needs us…” Jack knew that Rodger would come to the same conclusion he had—there was something happening that needed to be obfuscated, at least at first. Whether it ever made it into the official record would depend on just what Simon had found.

“Go. I’ll clear it with your superiors,” Rodg had said, his voice tight.

Rodger had been as good as his word. Not an hour later, Jack had received a message from his Chief that he’d been cleared for “special duty” for as long as he was needed, and he’d booked his train to leave that evening.

Jack closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall. The second call he’d made had been to Wardlow, where he’d spoken to Mr. Butler; the older man hadn’t questioned Jack as to why he’d needed to cancel his dinner with Miss Fisher the following evening, but Jack had said he’d send her a note anyway. He’d hung up the phone and pulled out a piece of paper.

 

> _Dear Miss Fisher,_
> 
> _It is with a heavy heart that I must refuse your dinner invitation for tomorrow evening. I have been called away on urgent business, and it seems that I will be away for several days. I truly hope that we can reschedule. I received your letter, and I cannot tell you how much it pains me that I will be unable to discuss the gifts you enclosed until my return. I’ll take them with me to remind me that I must hurry back._
> 
> _I am heading to a town called Hermannsburg, in the Northern Territory, and with the length of the train journey, I am unlikely to return for seven to ten days; I will write to you while I’m away, and I’ll telephone if the opportunity arises._
> 
> _Please don’t torment my constables while I’m gone, and do be careful. Trouble follows you, and it worries me less when I’m around to help when it catches up. I am aware that you don’t need my help, of course, but I do appreciate your indulgence of my manly concern._
> 
> _Yours, Jack_

 

Jack had given the note to Collins, who would be going to Wardlow at the end of his shift to collect his wife, and headed home to pack.

Now, as he lay on his cramped train bed, listening to the accellerating sounds of steam and the wheels clicking against the tracks, he thought about what he’d be missing the following evening.

He and Phryne had been dancing around each other, inching their way into a romantic relationship, since she’d returned from dropping her father off in Perth to catch his ship. Jack hadn’t realized that was her plan, and he’d just begun researching the costs of a voyage to England when she’d sashayed into his office, as vibrant as ever and larger than life.

“Really, Jack,” she’d said, her eyes twinkling at him. “Why on earth would I fly him all the way to England when I could just catch him up to his ship? If I’d been forced to spend weeks with him, he might have ended up dumped out somewhere over Europe.”

He’d grinned at her—actually grinned, an expression that made his face feel strange, it was so unfamiliar—and rounded his desk to cover her smiling mouth with his.

He smiled now, thinking of her surprise and delight at his forwardness. They’d spent the two weeks since her return moving slowly closer together, meeting almost every night for a drink and a kiss—sometimes a little more than a single kiss, but they hadn’t yet made it to her boudoir. She’d seemed to realize that although he was committed to whatever it was they were doing, the transition from friends to lovers was something he was more comfortable taking slowly. It felt rather like extended foreplay.

And she’d declared her intentions for their next evening together in the photos she’d enclosed with her dinner invitation. He didn’t want to ask who she’d had take them—they weren’t the same lingerie photos that she’d confiscated from Frederick Burn—but they were exquisite. In the first, she wore the striped dress she’d worn to the Green Mill, one foot propped on a chair and the fringed skirt falling away to reveal her leg up to her hip as she unfastened her stocking, her eyes on her hands.

In the second, she was barefoot, and she held the obviously unfastened dress up to her bosom, her head turned to one side. In the third, she wore camiknickers almost the same tone as her skin (it was difficult to tell in black and white), and though her eyes were on her hand as she slid one strap down her arm, the smile on her face was sly. The fourth showed her bent over, stepping out of the camiknickers, the line of her naked back and hip visible, but her arm obscuring the curve of her breast.

In the last shot, she reclined on a chaise, one arm draped over her breasts, leaving just the suggestion of the lower curve visible, and one leg raised to hide the juncture of her thighs. For the first time, she was looking directly into the camera, and her smile was seductive.

Jack looked at this last one for a long time, his fingers tracing her cheekbones and the shadow of her shoulder. She’d included a note with the photos that said, _“There were six images. Come to dinner tomorrow, and I’ll give you the last one. You can decide then whether to arrest me. ~P”_ He’d had no plans to arrest her—unless it was house arrest, and only for the night. And with proper police supervision of course.

The smirk that had touched his mouth fell away and he sighed again, lifting his head. He’d thought that tomorrow would be the night that he’d follow her up the stairs to her fragrant and luxurious bedroom. That he would finally be in her bed, with her, both of them sober and naked and aroused… Damn.

Simon had better have _very_ important information.

 

**Day two**

Jack woke late the following morning to the sounds of people speaking softly as they wove through the curving hallway that wound along the single-sleeper car. He raised his head to peer blurry-eyed at his watch, where he’d set it on the tiny bedside shelf. Nearly ten o’clock—he almost never slept in like this at home. He’d stayed up late the night before, writing a letter to Phryne and examining her photos in minute detail, which had led to taking himself in hand to calm down enough for sleep. Even then, his dreams were filled with her—her scent, her laugh, her eyes, her kiss.

Rising, Jack washed and dressed, heading to the dining car with a file folder containing several sheets of paper in one hand and his fountain pen in his pocket. He intended to spend the day creating a case file for this goose chase he was on. He didn’t have much to go on yet, but he’d write down what he could remember about Nick’s disappearance, just in case it came in handy later. He also wanted to finish his letter to Phryne; there’d be a stop sometime today, to fill the water tanks if nothing else, and he might have a chance to post it.

The dining car was not as posh as the one he’d seen on the train to Ballarat the previous year, but its white tablecloths were clean and its glasses and dishes sparkled in the sun. Jack took a seat at a table set for two halfway down the car, moving past families and couples to find a quiet spot of his own.

When the waiter came to whisk away the other place setting and ask for his order, Jack requested coffee along with bacon and eggs. The man nodded with a smile and moved away. As he waited, Jack began to note down his memories of that night in Cambrai.

 

> _We were stationed about 4 km outside of town, tracking the movements of enemy troops. Cambrai was about 50 km behind enemy lines, so we were careful to remain unseen. The nights were very cold; the days warmed up some, but never too much. On 27 Feb 1918, Nick Johnstone was sent out to relieve Rodger Mitchell on watch. We were tasked with scouting a company that was bivouacked just outside of town; it had been seeing a steady influx of troops, and we could tell that something was going to happen. We assumed that they were heading toward Paris, but hadn’t been able to confirm._
> 
> _Nick left our camp around 10 pm that evening, and although no alarm was raised at the enemy camp, he never returned. We assumed that he’d been caught and killed, as was the practice with enemy spies—even suspected ones. The Germans’ motto seemed to be “kill them all and let God sort them out.”_

 

Jack paused here, realizing that the helpful waiter had filled his coffee cup as he wrote. He laid down his pen and took up his cup in both hands. Jack’s crew of five had been assigned together in June 1916; they’d all spent time in the trenches, but had shown themselves to be quick-thinking and cool-headed, which had brought them to the attention of the Intelligence branch. Simon had been in another squad that had run into a German patrol and were wiped out, leaving him the sole survivor. Nick and Rodg had been officers working out of London after serving on the front lines. Jack himself had been a private first class whose command staff had all died in the first charge of his tour; unable to reach headquarters, all the remaining soldiers could do was wait for someone to realize they’d gone silent and send in some support. Jack had taken charge, keeping the twenty-five remaining men alive until help arrived.

And then there was Bernie—Bernard Bertrand, he of the horrible name. Jack looked out the window of the train, his eyes not registering the passing scenery. Bernie had been the team’s fifth member, a foot soldier like Jack, and he’d distinguished himself by executing a particularly effective strategy that took out an entire company of German soldiers. In August of 1917, after almost three years at war and just over a year with the same small team, Bernie had snapped.

He’d come back from a mission in which he’d been tailing a foursome of German soldiers who were scouting possible camp locations. When he’d returned to camp, it had been hours later than expected and he’d been a mess, covered in mud, his hands shaking; he’d sat down beside the fire and wrapped his hands around a cup of warm water—the closest thing they had to tea. His voice had been very calm as he’d explained that he’d lost the soldiers he’d been following; they had come across a pair of French women digging for mushrooms in the woods—a mother and daughter, it turned out, the daughter no more than fifteen. The women had tried to run, but the Germans had caught them. Bernie had been unable to do anything but watch—he was only carrying a knife, he was alone, and he didn’t know the area to run for help.

Bernie had described the Germans’ assaults on the women in graphic detail, his voice remaining calm, as if he was giving a routine report, but his eyes were dilated and wide as he relived the horror he’d witnessed. Jack shuddered now, just remembering the hell he’d been able to see in Bernie’s eyes.

When the men had gone, Bernie had continued, his voice still eerily calm, he’d tried to give the women first aid, but to no avail. The girl had died first; she never regained consciousness. The woman had lived long enough to tell Bernie their names and ask him to contact their family. When Bernie agreed, she had closed her eyes and just… died.

“She just sort of… _willed_ herself dead, I think,” Bernie had said with quiet despair. “One moment she was there, and the next… poof. Gone.”

Bernie had put that into the report he’d been asked to write later; the brass had scoffed, but Jack thought he understood. He’d seen men on the front lines who’d fought with every beat of their hearts to stay alive, and others who’d just given up.

Bernie had told them that he was covered in mud because he’d taken the time to bury the women; he was late because he’d found their home and given the woman’s husband her wedding band and the scarf the girl had worn, explaining that he’d found their bodies in the woods, dead from gunshot, and buried them.

And then Bernie had lowered his head and cried. When he hadn’t stopped crying twelve hours later, the other four had escorted him to the closest field hospital. He’d died there two weeks later, of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the back of the mouth.

Jack wiped his mouth and tried to smile at the waiter, who was standing beside the table with his breakfast plate. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Jack said, quickly gathering up his papers and pushing them back into the folder.

“No worries,” the waiter said with a smile, placing the plate precisely in front of Jack.

The scents of his breakfast made Jack’s stomach rumble, and he glanced up and caught the waiter’s eye with a smile.

“Enjoy your breakfast, sir,” the young man’s smile grew, and he nodded to Jack before withdrawing.

As Jack ate, he considered. It had been only six months after Bernie’s death that Nick had gone missing. Jack didn’t remember much more about that February; until Nick’s disappearance, there hadn’t been anything memorable about it. And after, well, the three of them had looked for Nick, of course, but they hadn’t found any trace of him. All they could suppose was that he’d been taken; Jack just hoped that Nick’s death had been quick.

Jack shook his head. There was a reason he tried not to think too much about his time at war. He’d lost too many friends for there to be many happy memories. _I have plenty of time to write up those case notes before I get to Hermannsburg. Time to think of something more uplifting._

With a small, secretive smile, he turned his mind to the memory of the letter he’d begun writing to Miss Fisher the evening before. He’d surprised himself with the ardor of his words, and he just needed to finish it and send it on its way. Digging into his breakfast, he began planning what else he needed to say.

 

**Day three**

Jack sat in his room, his bed folded up into a couch, and looked over his case file. There was more than he’d thought there’d be. He’d finished his recounting of the time around Nick’s disappearance—he hadn’t remembered anything new, but maybe Simon would be able to fill in the blanks. He pulled out the photo of the five of them that one of the French Intelligence photographers had taken. Rodger had received a packet a few months later containing five copies—who knew how the man had gotten them developed and through the censors. If the brass had known about that photo, they’d all have been court-martialed. Actual photographic evidence of an Intelligence team? Contraband was too gentle a word for it. But Rodger had passed them out nonetheless.

In the photo, the five of them were standing against a wall—it had been a barn, Jack remembered, all that was left of a farm used as a base by several Allied teams over a period of six months. Jack stood with an arm slung over Bernie’s shoulder; Rodger, the tallest of them, was in the middle, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed over his narrow chest; and Nick and Simon stood shoulder to shoulder. All of them had smiles that were small but sincere; they were dirty and a bit ragged, dressed in civilian clothing that had seen better days, but they were very obviously a team.

Jack’s eyes snagged on Simon, whose teeth appeared very white against the darker tone of his skin. He had been a tough nut to crack, friendship-wise. Simon was the oldest of their little squad—a few years older than Jack—and had held himself a bit aloof, at least for the first few months of their association. Simon was not a big man, maybe four inches shorter than Jack, but stocky and muscular. His dark hair and eyes and his swarthy skin had made many people assume that his heritage was Italian, but Jack thought differently. Simon had never said, but Jack believed he had at least some Aboriginal blood. Jack could understand why Simon wouldn’t admit to that—he wouldn’t have been allowed to enlist, and if he’d been found out after enlisting, he’d have been arrested immediately. Jack shook his head. It made no sense. Why did it matter what color a man’s skin was? What should matter was his character, his heart. And Simon Rowell had a heart as steadfast and loyal as any man Jack had ever known.

Rodger had told Jack that Simon was working out in Hermannsburg; Jack vaguely remembered that Simon had grown up in the Alice Springs area, so the brass probably considered him to be a good man for the job. Apparently, the crown had been commandeering the tribal lands of the indigenous Australians, displacing those people into the towns in the area. Now, the locals and the indigenous peoples were protesting loudly enough that there were plans to create new towns that the displaced natives could make their own. Simon had been sent to select some likely sites for those new, government-built towns. Jack was sure that Simon would be chafing a bit at this assignment, especially if he had native blood of his own.

Sighing, Jack gathered up his notes and placed them neatly into his case file. He needed to do something else for a while, let what little information he had simmer. He’d mailed the letter to Phryne the day before, when the train stopped to pick up passengers, and it felt too soon to start another. With a shrug, he slipped the case folder into his briefcase and pulled out his novel. Thankfully, the train should reach Alice Springs tomorrow; then he’d need to work on the next stage of his journey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Day four**

Phryne Fisher swung through the gates of Wardlow, a spring in her step. Her most recent case was coming along swimmingly—the necklace that had been taken from her client had been seen around the neck of a woman who was rumored to be the client’s husband’s mistress. _Stupid man_ , Phryne thought. _If you’re going to buy your side piece some sparklies, don’t go shopping in your wife’s jewelry box._

She stopped for a moment to pick up the mail, idly flipping through it as she walked up to the front door. _Bill, bill, letter from her mother—perhaps later—bill… what’s this?_ She held up the envelope, grinning at the sight of the chicken-scratch handwriting on the outside. _A letter from Jack!_

She pushed through the front door, both hands reaching to unpin her hat and hang it up. “Just me, Mr. B!” Heading through the parlor and into her library, she laid the pile of mail on her desk and stood looking at Jack’s letter, turning it over between her hands.

“Would you care for tea, miss?” Mr. B, with his usual quiet efficiency, stood in the doorway. “And may I take your coat?”

“Oh, yes, thanks—to both,” she said, shrugging out of her coat. He caught it and laid it over his arm. With a nod, he left, and Phryne sat down, the chiffon skirt of her dress lifting to show the rounded caps of her knees.

She still held Jack’s letter, and she found herself hesitating over opening it. The anticipation of his words was thrilling. She remembered the note he’d sent over the night he’d had to leave—it had been so very much _him_ , with the admonition to be careful and the oblique reference to those photos.

That photo session had been _fun_ , and it hadn’t made her skin crawl the way her session with Burn had. (She’d seen those photos, too—her facial expression had made it clear what she thought of the photographer.) The woman that Renee Fleuri had recommended had done a very good job, and she’d sold Phryne both the prints and the plates. Phryne was thankful for that. She had no issue with images of her nude body, but photographs were easily reproduced in mass quantities, and she wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about having them out in the world that way. She’d much rather they be given only to one specific person… the person she’d been thinking of as she’d posed for them. She hoped that Jack liked them.

She smoothed her hands over the envelope one last time before reaching for her letter opener. Sliding the folded pages out, she opened them, lifting them briefly to her nose. Jack didn’t wear cologne, but she imagined she caught a whiff of his musk-and-pomade scent on the paper. Smiling, she smoothed the letter open on her blotter, noting that it was dated the day of his departure from Melbourne.

 

> _Dear Phryne,_
> 
> _I have spent the evening tucked up in a very small sleeper compartment, heading north and west, with nothing to occupy my mind except your pictures and thoughts of where tomorrow night might have taken us. When I turn off my lamp, it will be very dark in this room, with only the moonlight to see what I’ll have to do to fall asleep._

 

Phryne took a deep breath and stood abruptly. If this was the direction this letter was going, she thought she might need to take it up to her boudoir to read. She snatched up the envelope and hurried out to the staircase.

“Put a hold on that tea, will you, Mr. B? I’ll come back down in a little bit,” she called as she passed the kitchen.

“Of course, miss.”

Bless the man for being so unflappable. She’d glimpsed the half-assembled tray through the doorway, and she knew he’d have it ready whenever she was. When she reached her bedroom, Phryne tugged off her shoes and curled up on the chaise to continue Jack’s letter.

 

> _Your photos are astonishingly beautiful—and illegal, to boot, though I am managing to ignore that aspect. I have studied them, one by one, examining the angles and the shadows, tracing the lines of your body and your face with my fingertips. Can you feel my touches, Phryne?_
> 
> _In the first photo, the line of your thigh and calf call to me. I imagine standing behind you, undoing your garter fastenings, then trailing my fingers along the lower curve of your thigh and stroking the soft skin at the back of your knee._
> 
> _In the second, I think I’ve just stepped out of frame—you’re watching me as I undress—but I’ve just undone the buttons down the back of your gown. The skin of your back is so soft, Phryne, my fingers are tingling at the thought of it even now._

 

Phryne gave a small shudder, imagining Jack’s warm, slightly rough fingertips sliding down her naked back as her dress loosened around her. She squirmed in her seat, turning to rest her feet on the other cushion of the chaise, bending her knees and letting her skirt pool at her waist. She held Jack’s letter in one hand, and her other absently stroked the fine silk of her stocking the way that Jack had said he would.

 

> _This third photo might be my favorite—the expression on your face is one that I’ve seen before when you’re teasing me. I love the playfulness of it, and the idea that it’s me you’re taunting with this slow reveal. In my imagination, I’ve divested myself of my upper garments, and you’re daring me to remove the lower. I hope that you realize I have no intention of leaving like a gentleman this evening. I have dreamt of this night for far too long to let it slip away again._

 

Phryne’s breath snagged in her throat. _He’d intended to stay the night!_ She whimpered a little, sliding the fingers on her thigh up to push aside her knickers and cup her sex. Damn this urgent business that called him away—he’d been planning to spend the night in her boudoir, where she’d wanted him for so long that she couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t.

 

> _I do love your expression in that third photo, but this fourth one, with the smooth line of your back and bottom, begs to be touched. I want to place my hand at your shoulder and stroke downward; my other hand would rest on your belly and trail up to cup the breast that is only a suggestion here. The imagined feel of your breast in my hand has me aching with desire—what will the actuality of it do to me, I wonder? I long to find out._

 

Phryne’s fingers between her legs began to stroke her damp flesh as she read. Who could have guessed that Jack Robinson would write such a letter as this? Phryne caught her lower lip between her teeth, her breath coming faster and faster as her arousal grew.

 

> _The last photo has been my undoing. I have had to study it carefully, and was unable to write as I did so, both of my hands being otherwise occupied. I return to my letter now, relieved but nowhere near sated, to tell you that I will do everything in my power to resolve this business as quickly as I can, just so that I can return to Melbourne, and to you._

 

Phryne cried out as she came, her eyes on the letter, her fingers on her clit, and her mind on the thought of Jack’s hands being “otherwise occupied.” As her breath calmed, she agreed with Jack—that had left her relieved, but not even close to sated; she had the feeling that it would take many nights with Jack Robinson in her bed before she was finished with him. Indeed, she might never find that she was finished with him—a thought that should have frightened her, but didn’t. With an effort, she returned to the letter.

 

> _At this time, I cannot give you the direction of where I’ll be staying. I will try to let you know if I can, though I hope that I’ll be home again in less time than it would take a return letter to reach me. Please exercise caution as you go about your daily work—I would hate for you to be damaged before you let me see that last photo._
> 
> _Yours, Jack_

 

Phryne let her head fall back against the arm of the chaise, the hand with the letter falling limply to her lap. She couldn’t believe that this letter had been written by Jack. She’d known that he was well-read, but she’d never expected that he could write something so stimulating. She wondered whether he’d studied the illegal erotic tracts that had been siezed by the police over the years—she would love a chance to look at some of those herself. Wherever his facility with words came from, though, she now found herself in a bit of a dilemma.

Ordinarily, when she was this keyed up, she would hie herself off to a club, to dance and find a likely bed partner to help her take the edge off. But something about that usual plan felt off this evening. It felt almost like she’d be cheating on Jack if she were to take someone else to bed while they were still in such an ill-defined place in their relationship. Perhaps, once she and Jack had had a chance to talk (among other things), such freedoms would still be an option. Whether she ever used it or not, the idea that she _could_ was important to her.

She sighed. If Jack couldn’t be modern enough to entertain the idea, their affair would likely be short-lived. She hoped that wouldn’t be the case—the idea of ending things with him sent a pang through her chest, and she rubbed at it absentmindedly with the heel of her hand. Either way, she’d wring the most pleasure she could out of the time they had. And she thought that Jack would have quite a lot of pleasure to offer. Maybe he’d consent to reading this letter to her at some point—the thought of his voice reading those charged words sent a shudder through her.

But either way, until they’d had that conversation, she had to assume that Jack would _not_ be all right with another man in her bed. So where did that leave her? A wicked smile teased at her lips. Perhaps she’d spend the evening amusing herself with the contents of her nightstand drawer. She could write Jack a letter in return, to let him know how his had affected her while the moment was still fresh in her mind.

Tucking Jack’s letter back in its envelope, she slid it under her pillow. She’d want that later, for inspiration. Chuckling to herself, she headed downstairs to take her long-delayed tea.

 

**Day five**

Jack stood on the train platform at Alice Springs, ridiculously relieved to have finally made it there. The train journey from Melbourne that should have taken three days had taken five—there had been a torrential downpour that had flooded the tracks, and the train had had to wait until the water went down before proceeding. Jack felt grimy as well as tired, and he still had quite a distance to travel.

With a sigh, he headed toward the ticket office, hoping that there’d be an easy answer for how he could travel to Hermannsburg. On the map, it didn’t seem too far away—only 100 km or so—but Jack was well aware that bush communities could be difficult to get to.

“Excuse me,” he said to the elderly gentleman behind the counter, whose spectacles had glass so thick his brown eyes were magnified, giving him the odd look of a rather quizzical bug. “But I need to find a way to get to Hermannsburg—do you know of anyone who might be going that way?”

The old man looked him over, his large eyes squinting. “No train tracks out that way. Ol’ Charlie Hennessey’s likely got a delivery going out in the next day or two. Y’could ask him if y’could ride along in his wagon.”

“I was truly hoping to get there sooner—I’m late for a visit with a friend, with the train delay and all. Is there anyone else?” Jack tried for a friendly grimace. He really didn’t want to have to spend days in Alice Springs and then the better part of twelve hours on the back of a horse-drawn wagon to get to his destination. He was already behind schedule.

The man pursed his lips, sucking at the few teeth he had left. “Well,” he drawled, “I suppose you could ask at the post office. There’s a truck heads out that way once a week. Might be sooner’n Charlie’s going.”

“Ah, that might be just the ticket. Could you point me in the proper direction?” The man did. “And just in case I need to ask Mr. Hennessey after all, where might I find him?”

“Hennessey’s Dry Goods,” the man said. “S’ right next door to the post office. Y’caint miss it.”

“You’re a life saver. Thanks so much.” Jack tipped his hat to the man and set off, bags in hand, for the post office.

When he found it, he looked for the mail truck driver—though those vehicles were rarely kitted out for passengers, the drivers often allowed a few people to ride on top of the mail deliveries for a small fee. He was lucky. The man had just come in from completing a round of deliveries and was loading up again. It turned out that he would be headed out for Hermannsburg and the other communities in its area the following day; Jack paid the driver half of the fee in advance to hold his seat and then checked into a hotel for the night. It wasn’t up to Phryne’s usual standards, but it would suit him fine, and it gave him a place to wash out some of his things before heading west.

 

**Day six**

The next morning, Jack dressed in the moleskin trousers he’d packed—the only pair he’d brought that wasn’t part of a suit. Why had he worn that thing anyway? Habit, he supposed. It was too hot this far inland to wear the three pieces and his overcoat, so he’d packed them away, shrugging into a simple homespun shirt as well. He’d forgotten his boots, though, so he slid his feet into his wingtips. He was out of practice packing in a hurry; it’d have to do.

He breakfasted at the hotel, and the kitchen was kind enough to make him a box lunch to take with him—he’d likely be on the road for six to eight hours, and he’d need something. Jack settled his hat on his head and grasped his briefcase and carpet bag in the same hand, then picked up the twine-tied box containing his lunch. With a nod to the hotel staff, he set out for the post office.

The ride was not comfortable. The package compartment of the truck was enclosed except for two small windows in the doors at the back that had no glass, just thin bars. Jack was glad that he’d worn his less formal clothing—the ride was hot and dusty, and he was joined in the rather small back area by two other men, neither of whom smelled like they’d had a bath in the past year. He was glad of his lunch, as well, as the hours rolled by; the other two men also had food—he was grateful for that, because he’d have felt the need to share if they hadn’t. The three of them had made desultory conversation for the first hour or so, but they’d fallen into silence. There wasn’t enough light to read by, so Jack spent the silent hours wondering what he’d find when he arrived in Hermannsburg.

The driver had stopped a couple of times along the drive to relieve himself, and Jack and the other two men had clambered out of the back to do the same, glad to have a chance at a breeze, despite the day’s baking sunshine. On one stop, as Jack finished his business off the edge of the dirt track that fancied itself a road, he saw an enormous spider scuttle from one bit of scrub bush to the next, and he smiled wryly, thinking of Phryne. It was a little easier to crawl back inside the hotbox of a truck for the last leg of the journey with an image of her holding a parasol and an iced drink in his mind’s eye.

Two hours later, Jack heard the brakes squeal and the sound of voices greeting the driver. He sent a silent _hallelujiah_ heavenward and gathered his things. When the driver opened the back door, he was flanked by a tiny Aboriginal woman who looked to be ancient but was probably only in her sixties and a large bald man of European heritage who wore a spotless white apron around his ample waist. Blinking owlishly at the change in light, Jack clambered out of the truck along with his two traveling companions. Neither of them would be staying in Hermannsburg, but any chance they got to stretch their legs, they’d take.

“Inspector Robinson,” the mail-truck driver said, “this is Mr. Devereaux; he owns the general store.”

“Inspector?” Devereaux looked Jack up and down, and Jack was suddenly aware of how he must look—wrinkled and sweat-drenched, his hair curling around his forehead.

“Off-duty, but yes. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, out of Melbourne. I’m here to visit a friend. Simon Rowell?”

Devereaux exchanged a glance with the small black woman beside him. “I’m that sorry to tell you, lad, but Simon’s gone walkabout.”

“Walkabout? What do you mean?” Jack’s surprise must have shown. The two townsfolk glanced at each other again.

“I mean he headed out into the bush,” Devereaux explained. “Been gone three days now. But not to worry, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

Jack did his best to rein in his facial muscles. There was no way that Simon would have left, knowing that Jack was on his way. He hoped his friend hadn’t gotten himself into something deeper than he’d expected.

“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to wait for him to return, then,” he said, pleased that his voice managed to sound both sincere and unconcerned. “Any chance there’s a room I can let for the time I’ll be in town?”

“Head on over to Mrs. Manning’s—that’s where Simon’s got his room, and she’s got an open one. She’ll board you and feed you for a decent price.” Devereaux’s voice was jovial, but Jack noticed that his good humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. He gave Jack directions to the boarding house, and Jack left him with a calm thank you.

Mrs. Manning was a bird-like older woman whose bright blue eyes twinkled with good humor. She fluttered around Jack as she showed him back to her empty room—“Any friend of Simon’s is a friend of mine,” she trilled.

The single-story house had three bedrooms but no indoor plumbing and no electricity. There was an outhouse, and each room had a chamber pot that was emptied daily. Mrs. Manning also showed him where she kept a well-stocked box of small candles; she charged a penny for a half-dozen candles, to be placed in a tin that was kept in the drawer. She’d do his laundry, she said, for a small fee, or he was welcome to do it himself. She also had a shower enclosure off the back porch that used a rainwater drip system—Jack was just grateful for the possibility of getting clean.

As he gathered up a change of clothes and the towel and soap his landlady had handed him, he shook his head. What had Simon gotten himself into now? And how was Jack supposed to help?


	3. Chapter 3

**Day six**

Late that night, Jack fished a handheld torch out of his bag and crept across the hall to the room Mrs. Manning had indicated was Simon’s.

“Simon’s a dear,” she’d said over a hearty stew and fresh brown bread that evening. “I knew his parents—lovely people, so sad about the flood—and he’s grown up right. Fought in the war, you know, so happy that he made it back. So many of our boys didn’t.” She’d shaken her head softly. “Such a shame. So many young men lost.”

“Simon’s a good ’un, all right,” Jack had said. “We served together, actually. Been friends ever since.”

Jack had been doing his utmost to charm Mrs. Manning—he could see Phryne’s raised eyebrow as he did it—complimenting her on her (admittedly delicious) stew and asking about her late husband, who’d been the town’s schoolteacher. She seemed to be warming to him nicely.

“I’m a bit worried about Simon, actually. It’s not like him to wander off when he knew I was on my way. I don’t suppose he left me a message?” Jack kept his voice casual, trying not to let on just how concerned he was.

“Not with me, dear. But I don’t think there’s a need for worry. He does that—he works for a mapmaker. Goes out surveying all the time. I’m sure he’ll be back soon, right as rain.”

Mrs. Manning’s lack of concern seemed genuine to Jack, which was reassuring. After meeting with Devereaux earlier, he’d worried about a town-wide conspiracy similar to the one he and Miss Fisher had uncovered in Maiden Creek, only this time with Simon at its center. Jack was still uncertain about Devereaux, but it seemed that Simon had at least one person on his side.

Jack had let the subject of Simon drop then. He’d considered asking for permission to search his friend’s room, but given that he’d already said he was in Hermannsburg unofficially, he didn’t really have a reasonable excuse. He smiled to himself when he realized that he was planning a Miss Fisher-esque break-in. She’d be so proud.

Now here he was, in the darkened hallway outside Simon’s room. He had a lockpick—he’d never actually said that he didn’t know how to use them, he just generally didn’t need to—but he decided to try his room key first. He huffed out a soft laugh as the lock disengaged easily. Of course all the keys were the same. Made it much easier should one be lost. Quietly, he stepped into Simon’s room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Keeping the flashlight beam low until he saw that the room’s curtains were pulled closed, Jack set to work. Simon’s room was very like his—simple furnishings of bed, bedside table, desk, and wardrobe, all kept military neat. There were a few personal effects around, including a framed copy of the same team photograph that Jack carried and another framed photo that showed Simon standing with a fair-skinned older couple, possibly his parents. Jack looked closely at that one. Simon looked the same, just younger—short and barrel-chested, his smile wide and white. The man in the photo was taller than Simon by a good six inches, and his hair was either very fair or white with age; the woman in the photo was perhaps two inches over Simon’s height, and her hair was darker, but not the black-brown of his friend’s.

Sifting through the wardrobe, Jack noticed what might be missing pieces—places where something might have been that bore out Mrs. Manning’s assertion that Simon had packed a bag and walked out into the bush.

Something was definitely going on. Jack slid open the drawer of the bedside table. _Condoms, Simon? You sly dog._ He reached past the box at the front of the drawer and his fingers brushed the edge of what felt like a book. _What’s this?_ Grasping it, Jack pulled it out. It was a journal.

Jack hesitated only a moment and then flipped through it. Simon wasn’t the journaling type, so chances were this would be a log of some kind. It appeared benign, but they’d all been taught ciphering during the war, and it had sounded as if Simon hadn’t told Mrs. Manning what his work here was about, so he’d likely want to keep any notes hidden. And hiding it behind the condom box was sure to deter any incursions by a nosy but well-intentioned landlady. With a smile, he tucked the book into his waistband and continued his search.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back in his room. He hadn’t found anything else, so he tucked the notebook into his briefcase and prepared for bed. He’d start working to decode it in the morning.

*****

Phryne swung through the front door of City South, hoping to find Hugh Collins at the front desk. Her quarry looked up as she entered, his expression half confused, half alarmed.

“Hello, Miss Fisher,” he said.

“Hello, Hugh!” She smiled as she swung her purse up to set it on the edge of the counter. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” he replied, the alarm in his eyes growing. _Dear boy. If I was up to something, you’d never see it coming._

“I find myself in need of some constabulary assistance,” she said calmly. “I have a client who would like to press charges in a theft. I’ve already found the stolen goods, though I haven’t retrieved them.”

“Oh?” Hugh blinked. “And what… what would you like the constabulary to do?”

“Well, file the report, for starters, and retrieve the goods. Nothing out of the ordinary, Hugh!” She smiled winningly at him.

“Oh, right. Of course.” He turned away to gather up the appropriate paperwork, and Phryne let her eyes travel around the station. She’d only been here a few times since she’d returned from England, and then only to visit Jack. Her eyes drifted to the open door of his office, where his desk sat unattended. She wondered how he was faring with his “urgent business,” and when he’d be back. She had plans for him upon his return. She felt her lips curving into a feline smile. Lots of rather naughty plans for her buttoned-up inspector.

“Miss Fisher?”

Phryne’s eyes snapped back to Hugh, her expression smoothing into something far more innocent—she hoped.

“Yes, Hugh?”

“I have that paperwork for you.” Hugh swallowed as he met her eyes. _Sweet Hugh. How scandalized he’d be if he could read my thoughts._

“Lovely! Let me fill you in, then.” Phryne gave him her client’s name and address, and explained the situation. Her client had decided to press charges against her soon-to-be-ex husband for theft—it seemed that the necklace he’d appropriated to give to his mistress had been a family heirloom. Phryne told him the mistress’s name as well, and gave him her address and a description of the necklace—a gaudy thing of sapphires and rubies set in gold.

“The woman who has the necklace now may have no idea that it’s stolen goods, Hugh. If that’s the case, my client is willing to refrain from pressing charges against her.” She eyed Hugh, who was writing carefully to fill out the report. “I can find out, if you like?”

“What? Oh, no thank you, Miss Fisher. I’m sure that we can take it from here.” He glanced at her, a soft thing, very unlike the sardonic look that Jack would have given her for offering to do the constabulary’s work for them.

“Very well, Hugh, I’ll leave you to it. You and Dot are coming for dinner tonight, aren’t you?” Phryne picked up her purse and turned to leave, looking back over her shoulder to ask the question.

“Of course,” he said, flashing a shy smile at her. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

“Excellent! See you at seven then!” With a small wave, she left the station. All this work made her want to do some shopping. Maybe she should go see what the Fleuri sisters had in the way of lingerie, for when Jack returned. Smiling, she hopped into her Hispano and set off, determined to find something that would tease her inspector into either a smart remark or a lustful silence. Either would be acceptable.

 

**Day seven**

In the morning, stuffed from Mrs. Manning’s excellent breakfast, Jack decided to walk around town, see if he could get anyone talking. He thought he would begin by stopping in at the local police station, as well; it was possible someone was working Simon’s disappearance as a missing persons case.

Walking through town, he felt very conspicuous in his suit vest and shirtsleeves—even though he’d left his jacket in his room, he was far more formally dressed than anyone else in town. He made a mental note to get his casual clothing laundered.

Pushing through the doorway of the police station, Jack looked around. It was a single room, containing a desk with two visitors’ chairs on one side and a bench on the other. There was a doorway off the back wall that Jack assumed led to the holding cell (there was likely only the one in a station this size). A uniformed sergeant sitting behind the desk looked up as Jack entered. Jack guessed that he was in his mid-fifties; though his hair was still dark, it had begun graying at the temples.

“Help you?” His tone was laconic; he folded his hands on the desk in front of him, his eyes on Jack.

“Hello. I’m DI Jack Robinson, out of Melbourne—I’ve come to town to visit with a friend, Simon Rowell?” Jack smiled slightly, closing the door behind himself and moving toward the desk.

“How can I help you, inspector?” The man’s voice was civil, but Jack could hear the undertone of tension in it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” Jack’s voice was also civil, but firm. He could tell already that this man was unhappy about the idea that Jack was here. _I wonder why that is?_

“Sergeant Frank Burton.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Jack held out his hand, his eyes on the other man’s.

“You as well.” Burton’s handshake was perfunctory. “ _Is_ there something I can help you with, inspector?”

“I’m a bit concerned about my friend—he knew that I was coming, that I was due any day, and yet he went walkabout. That’s not like him.” Jack sat in one of the visitor’s chairs and leaned forward, hoping his posture would convey concern.

“Simon? He heads out to the bush regularly,” the sergeant said, his tone unworried. “He’s usually only gone a couple of days. He likely thought he’d be back before you missed him. The lines from Melbourne to Alice Springs are known for their delays.”

“He’s been gone for three days already, though. Has anyone reported him missing?”

Burton laughed. “What’s the point? He’ll turn up. Not worth investigating when he’ll likely just wander back into town on his own.”

“Huh. Well, I hope you’re right.”

“I am, you’ll see. You have a nice day now, inspector.”

Jack rose, nodding coolly, and made his way out. He wondered whether the sergeant was really as unconcerned as he appeared. It was possible, he supposed, that the story Burton had offered up was the right one, that Simon had seized the chance to go out before Jack arrived in town. And if Simon had grown up in this town, as Mrs. Manning’s comments seemed to intimate, it was possible that the townsfolk were simply closing ranks against an outsider. For Simon’s sake, Jack hoped the reason for his absence was one of those and not something more sinister.

Wandering back through town, Jack attempted to make conversation, asking whether anyone had seen Simon recently. He got politely blank stares, reassurances that Simon “always went out like this” and would be back soon, and a few refusals to even speak with him. Not a bit of actual information.

After a couple of hours, he decided to admit defeat, and headed back to the boarding house. He’d spend the time before dinner working on decoding Simon’s notebook. Surely something would come up soon.

 

**Day eight**

Jack slept late the next morning, having stayed up working on Simon’s notebook till the last of his candles guttered out the night before. The good news was that he was now certain that the notebook was encoded. The bad news was that he’d only just managed to break the code when he’d lost the light.

He supposed that he should be proud of himself for breaking the code so quickly—if you could call going on eight hours “quickly”—given how rusty his ciphering skills were. Really, though, he wanted Simon to get back so that he didn’t _need_ to decode this book. But unfortunately, Simon hadn’t returned in the night—if he had, he’d’ve been knocking on Jack’s door at dawn.

Jack decided to get up, get showered and dressed in his newly clean casual clothes— _bless Mrs. Manning_ —and try asking around again, this time showing the photo of the team. There had been a few people he was almost certain had been pretending ignorance when he’d asked yesterday. If nothing else, he was confident that he’d be able to see any recognition in their eyes when they looked at the picture.

He wandered around town for a while, photo in hand, hoping for some sort of lead. Eventually, he found himself in the general store with Mr. Devereaux. With a sigh, Jack pocketed the photo and began to pick out some supplies. He’d need more paper if he was going to decipher Simon’s book, and he could use a change of casual clothing. There was very little to be had that was ready-made, but he found a pair of trousers in his size made of a heavy dark blue fabric. According to the label, they were from America, and he swallowed hard at the price tag. A pair of boots was next, to replace the ones he’d left at home. He supposed that his dress shirts would do, since there were no ready-made ones. Shaking his head—he was spending close to a full paycheck on less than a single change of clothing—he headed up to the counter, where Devereaux waited.

“Inspector,” the bald man said, taking his stack of items and noting them down in an inventory book.

“Mr. Devereaux,” Jack said, keeping his tone cordial.

“Any word from Simon Rowell?” Devereaux’s voice was just a shade too casual.

“Nothing yet,” Jack replied, meeting the man’s eyes. “You?”

“Not a thing,” the man said. “But I’m sure he’s fine. He spends a lot of time in the bush.” Devereaux tied off Jack’s purchases in brown paper and string and pushed them toward him.

“Nothing to do but wait, then, I suppose.” Jack smiled, just a stretch of the lips as he lifted the package in one hand. “You have a nice day.” With a nod, he pushed the door open and departed, not waiting for a reply.

When Jack arrived at the boarding house, he took the things to his room; opening the door, he saw a flash of white as an envelope that had been slid under the door was knocked out of the way. Jack bent to pick it up, and the tiny smile he’d aimed at Devereaux was nothing compared to the real smile he sported now. It was a letter from Phryne; it must have been delivered to the boarding house, somehow—it was simply addressed to “Jack Robinson, Hermannsburg, NT,” so it was miraculous that it had found him so quickly. Jack dropped his purchases onto his bed and sat back against the headboard as he slid his finger under the envelope flap. He smiled at his own giddy anticipation—just her handwriting had been enough to raise his spirits, and he wondered whether she’d written this before or after she’d received his letter. It was dated four days previous.

 

> _Dear Jack,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well—indeed, I hope it finds you at all, as I have nothing but the name of the town you were aiming for as a direction. I received your letter, and once I’d caught my breath, I found that I must write in return. I suppose if you never receive this, it might make some lonely person a bit less lonely for a little while._
> 
> _I am very glad that you enjoyed my photos. That session was far more fun than the one I endured with that weasel Frederick Burn. You might even like this photographer—she’s female, and very good at evoking the kind of emotion that makes for a very artistically engaging photograph._

 

Jack laughed softly. Of course Phryne would be able to find a female photographer to take her naughty pictures. He’d looked at those photos every night since he’d left Melbourne, and sometimes during the day. He missed her terribly—her laugh, her quick wit, and her kisses had become such an integral part of his day to day life.

 

> _Your comments on those pictures were spot on. Shall I tell you what I was thinking about as I took off my fashionable armor?_
> 
> _Removing my shoes and stockings for the first picture, I imagined that I was in my boudoir and that you were standing beside my bed, removing your jacket and waistcoat and tie. You’d already kissed me silly, your hands wandering over me as they did the last time you stayed for a nightcap—do you remember? I can recall every minute of that evening; your delicious kisses, your hands on me... You might not realize just how much I want you, Jack Robinson._
> 
> _In the second photo, you’re right—I was imagining that you were right there, out of frame, having just helped me undo the fastenings of my dress. You have the most amazing hands, Jack. I dream of them trailing over me gently or gripping me in passion; it makes me shiver, just thinking about it._
> 
> _In that third photo, I was pretending that you were watching me, your hands on the waistband of your trousers, your eyes hot. You’d just said something incredibly naughty, and your voice wrapped warmly around me. I think you could probably talk me into orgasm, if you tried._
> 
> _The fourth and fifth photos are spaced close together—I want to be naked for you, to show you all of my skin. Though you’ve seen most of it; that fan dance didn’t leave much to the imagination, did it? Still, I’d like to show you all of me, to see your eyes light up as you looked me over, to see your hands twitch with the desire to feel me and all of you stand at attention as you plan how you’ll touch me first._
> 
> _In my imagination, you remove what’s left of your clothing and join me on that chaise, all of you against all of me. I can almost feel it now, Jack! You are so very hard and warm against me, and I am forced to make do without you—my fingers are no substitute for you; I know it, even though I haven’t had the whole of you. Yet._
> 
> _Hurry home, Jack Robinson, my darling Jack. I’m waiting for you, as patiently as I know how. I’m really not very good at patience, as I’m sure you already know._
> 
> _I hope that you dream of my kisses tonight and sleep either very well or very poorly indeed._
> 
> _Yours, Phryne_

 

Jack finished the letter, breathing heavily, realizing that he’d slid his hand into his trousers to cup his aching cock as he read her provocative words. He stroked himself as he read the letter again, his arousal growing at the idea that she’d been imagining _him_ as she’d posed for those photos, that she wanted _him_ to touch her skin and bring her pleasure. He brought the paper to his nose, hoping to catch her scent; his eyes closed softly as echoes of her perfume wafted over him. He came with a groan, her face in his mind’s eye, his imagination soaring with the ways he wanted to touch her when next he was given the chance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Day nine**

Jack woke early the next morning—something of a miracle, given that after he’d reread Phryne’s letter a third time and cleaned himself up, he’d stayed up working on Simon’s notebook till he’d run out of candles again. He’d managed to decode about a third of it—he was confident that he’d hit upon the right code, but it was slow going. He’d never been as fluent in this kind of thing as the others on his team, and more than ten years of letting those skills atrophy hadn’t done him any favors.

In the section that Jack had decoded so far, Simon had not yet been in Hermannsburg, but he had begun the job that Rodger had told Jack about. Simon was looking for likely sites for new villages to be given to the indigenous Australians who’d been displaced so that the government could build train tracks and white settlements in their traditional lands. Simon had obviously planned to sanitize his notes for his official reports, though, because he’d done quite a bit of editorializing around the displacement of those people—he’d even admitted his own heritage, confirming Jack’s suspicions.

 

> _It’s not enough that people like me aren’t truly considered citizens of this country that our whole history urges us to nurture. The government can take our land, our homes, even our children, and turn our lives to serve those of European background who are considered superior to us. I have hidden in plain sight since I was a babe, but others of similar “half-caste” heritage are spending their lives—their childhoods!—as servants or manual laborers because of the color of their skin._
> 
> _I am worse than the Europeans, though. I work for them, disavowing my mother’s family and approving what’s been done to them through my silence. The very least I can do is find them a new home that is similar to what they’ve lost. I only wish that I was brave enough to do more._

 

Jack shook his head sadly as he rose and dressed for the day. He agreed that the way that the Aboriginal peoples were treated by the European government wasn’t fair, and in many ways, wasn’t right. The fact that Aboriginal children could be legally removed from their parents and put into service without so much as a court order was shameful. He didn’t know how often something like that happened, but he’d bet that it was far more common than he’d like to think.

After combing his hair into its usual neatly pomaded style, Jack breakfasted with Mrs. Manning. She still hadn’t heard anything from Simon, but she was certain that he’d be back from the bush any time.

“I don’t know what he was thinking of, going off when he knew you were coming for a visit, inspector,” she said as she plated up Jack’s drop scones and passed him a pot of homemade jam to spread on them.

“I’m sure that he’ll be back soon—I hope that he will, anyway. Eventually, I’ll have to go back to work!” Jack smiled gently at the elderly woman.

“Well, at least you’re getting a chance to relax away from home,” she said with a smile, patting him on the shoulder as she moved around him to fill his coffee.

“I am, at that,” he agreed, and tucked into his excellent breakfast. He could wish, though, that his enforced “vacation” had been accompanied by a certain raven-haired woman who always kept him on his toes.

*****

After breakfast, Jack sat down at the tiny desk in his room to write a return letter to Phryne; he could drop it at the post office before beginning the day’s investigations. Pulling her letter from its place inside the book he’d been reading, he smoothed it open on the desktop beside him. He was enjoying these letters—the first one had been a little nerve-racking to send, if only because it was so overt. But her response had reaffirmed his idea that she would enjoy that type of correspondence, so he was happy to continue.

After a quick reread of Phryne’s letter—not so quick that he didn’t relish every word—Jack thought for a moment and began to write.

 

> _Dear Phryne,_
> 
> _Thank you for your letter. That sounds stilted and wrong, but it is heartfelt. I loved that letter; it was a blindingly bright spot in what has been an exceedingly frustrating trip. Between the delay of my train between Tarcoola and Alice Springs that cost me more than a day, the several hours I spent crammed in the back of a mail truck getting to Hermannsburg, and the fact that the friend I was supposed to visit seems to have gone walkabout, this trip seems like nothing but a way to keep me from you._
> 
> _I have entertained myself with thoughts of what you and I will get up to when I finally return to Melbourne. You know that I enjoy a good plan, and this occasion seems to warrant a detailed one. Shall I tell you what I’ve imagined? I think you’ll say yes, but skip the next few paragraphs if I’m wrong, won’t you?_
> 
> _So, to begin where you left off, I will happily join you on that chaise or your bed or my bed—wherever you like, really—all of me against all of you. I will kiss you, as long and as lavishly as you allow, letting my hands wander over your skin. I have imagined the way your skin will feel, Phryne; the velvet smoothness of your breasts, the pebbled warmth of your nipples, the damp folds between your thighs. I wonder, alone in my bed, whether the skin of your back and the insides of your thighs will have the same texture or if there are subtle differences. I plan to make a study of you to find out._
> 
> _I want to see you, all of you, in brilliant, living color, and know that you’re real and there with me. I want to know how your body feels against my fingertips, my palms, and my lips, not to mention pressed against me, head to toe. I want to know how you taste, as well, in all of those places and more; I want to find all of the spots that you anoint with your mesmerizing scent, using only my nose as a guide. I want to hear the noises you make as I bring you pleasure—will they be loud or soft? Understandable or unintelligible? Will you call my name when release overcomes you? That sound will, I think, rival the best verse that Shakespeare has to offer._
> 
> _I truly trust that my attempts at long-distance literary seduction won’t have made you change your mind about what you want from me. I expect to be finished here before too much longer, and you can be sure that I will take whatever the most expedient route is to return to Melbourne. I hope that I will still be welcomed at Wardlow as soon as may be upon my return._
> 
> _Yours, Jack_

 

Jack laid his pen aside carefully, dropping his hands to his lap. He closed his eyes, imagining the taste and smell and feel of Phryne as he opened his trousers and took himself in hand. When he came, covering himself with a handkerchief, he moaned Phryne’s name. That woman might be the death of him, even when she was nowhere nearby.

*****

Jack headed into town, letter to Phryne and team photo in his pocket, and Simon’s notebook and writing paper in one hand. He didn’t have a plan for the day’s investigations—he’d covered most of the central area of town the day before, with no helpful results. He finally decided that just being visible to the townsfolk might gain him some ground, so after he posted the letter, he found a bench outside the post office and sat down. He opened Simon’s notebook and began slowly making notes on a sheet of paper, keeping his ears attuned for anyone nearby.

After a half-hour or so, he became aware of the soft scuffling of feet and a whispered conversation. Without looking up, he focused on it, trying to understand the words.

“You ask him,” one voice hissed.

“No, you,” came another.

“Oh for crying Pete,” came a third. “ _I’ll_ ask him.”

When a shadow fell over him, Jack looked up, unsurprised to see three children standing beside him. There were two boys, one pale, one dark, flanking a girl with dark brown pigtails and freckles across her nose. All three of them looked to be about ten years old, though Jack knew he wasn’t very good at figuring the ages of children. All three had their arms crossed over their chests and rather belligerent looks on their faces.

“Hello there.” Jack affected a casual tone, his gaze shifting from one child to the next before settling on the girl, who was obviously the leader. “Can I help you with something?” He closed the notebook, trapping his paper and pencil inside.

“Are you a copper?” The girl burst out, a momentary look of horror in her eyes—likely at her own cheek—before she narrowed them again, obviously deciding that she was in for a penny now.

“I am when I’m at home,” Jack said genially. “But I’m on vacation, so I’m not officially on the force here.”

“My mum says that you’re a Detective Inspector, and that’s a higher rank than my Gramps. He’s in charge of the p’lees round here.” Her eyes narrowed, looking Jack over. “How can you be a Detective Inspector when you’re younger than him?”

Jack fought to keep his eyebrows from rising to his hairline. This young spitfire was the granddaughter of Sergeant Burton, the recalcitrant head of the town police.

“Well, I’ve been working in Melbourne. Maybe there’s just more opportunity for promotion there.”

“Have you ever seen a dead body, then?” The pale young man spoke up, and the girl shot him a dirty look.

“I have, actually. I rather specialize in homicides. That’s murder,” he clarified, when he saw their blank faces. The two boys exchanged a wide-eyed glance behind the girl’s back. Jack’s lips twitched at their expressions.

“Well, my Gramps says you’re just a busybody, sticking your nose in where it don’t belong,” the girl said, with that momentary horror flashing in her eyes again. She dropped her arms to her sides and glanced at her friends before looking back at Jack.

He smiled slightly and kept his voice kind. “I can see how he’d think that. I don’t mean to be, though. I’m just worried about my friend.” Her gramps sounded like a bit of a blowhard. “Want to see his picture?” He drew out the photograph and held it up for the girl to see. Craning his neck around, he tapped the photo right above Simon’s head. “That’s him.”

“Sure, Simon. I know him,” she said, squinting at the photo. “He’s young in this.”

“He is,” Jack said, turning the photo to look at it himself. “We all were. This was taken during the war.”

“You were in the war with Simon and Ned?” The girl’s question caught Jack by surprise.

“I was. See, here’s me… wait, did you say ‘Ned’?”

“Yeah, that there, next to Simon. That’s Ned. He comes into the store every couple weeks, and has a night at the pub. Lives out in the bush somewhere.” Jack knew that his mouth was hanging open.

“This man here,” he pointed to Nick. “This man lives out in the bush? And comes into town every couple of weeks?”

“Sure. He pays Darel’s brother to help carry his supplies, and he gives us peppermint lollies.” She was looking at him as if he was mad.

“Peppermint lollies.” Jack shook his head. Could Nick be _alive_? It was an old photo—maybe the girl had mistaken him for someone else. But _if_ Nick was alive, that would explain all the secrecy—Simon would want to investigate the possibility that Nick hadn’t died, but had deserted all those years ago. And he’d do it off the books, to protect his friend if it came to that. Suddenly, Jack needed to finish decoding Simon’s notebook. The answers would be in there.

“What’s your name, kid?” He looked at her keenly.

“Amelia Burton,” she responded automatically to his authoritative voice.

He shifted his gaze to the two boys in turn.

“Peter Farnwell,” the blond blurted out.

“Darel Jaminjung,” muttered the dark-skinned boy.

“Thank you for your help, Amelia, Peter, Darel. I’ll see if I can’t find some peppermint lollies to pay you with.” Jack smiled at them again, then stood, gathering up the notebook and his photo. With a nod at the three children, he headed back to the boarding house to finish his work.

*****

Jack greeted Mrs. Manning on his return and stocked up on candles. He rather thought he’d be up late working on the notebook. He truly hoped that it contained the answers he needed.

After lunch, he dragged the small desk in his room over toward the window to make the most of the daylight while he had it. When it was situated to his satisfaction, he pulled out Simon’s notebook, a stack of paper, and his key to the code and got to work.

Four hours later, Jack let out a ripe curse, throwing his pen down and getting up to walk around. He had decoded the journal up to just about six months ago—right to where Simon came to Hermannsburg, as far as he could tell—when the code changed. Stopping in the middle of the room, he raised his hands to the back of his neck, massaging his sore muscles. It was almost dinner time, so he’d take a break, then work on the new code. It was probably a good thing, even if it was frustrating—a change of code might mean that there was something important Simon wanted to obscure. Jack just hoped that this would be the last time.

When he’d come back from the post office, Jack had spotted a bicycle behind Mrs. Manning’s house. At lunch, she’d given him permission to borrow it, so he decided to take it out for a ride. He’d been too long without any real physical exercise, and he could feel himself beginning to get antsy. An hour later, he returned, sweaty and dusty but feeling more centered; he showered and changed before heading in to have dinner.

“You’ve been very quiet today, inspector. Did you have a nice ride?” Mrs. Manning gazed kindly at him as she dished a large helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate next to thick slices of meatloaf covered in a rich brown sauce. Jack’s mouth watered, just looking at it—he was suddenly ravenous.

“I did, Mrs. Manning,” he responded as he laid his napkin across his lap. “I went down the main road a ways—it felt good to get some exercise in. I hope you won’t mind if I try to take a ride more regularly?”

Her smile was maternal as she settled herself into her own chair and motioned to him to tuck in. “Oh no, of course not! Go as often as you like. I mostly walk these days. Not so far to fall.” They both chuckled a little.

“Somehow I think you’d be out there racing the local urchins,” Jack rumbled, smiling at her as she giggled like a girl.

“I have been known to win a race or two in my time,” she admitted, her blue eyes twinkling at him.

Jack was struck suddenly by a thought. “Mrs. Manning, would you look at something for me?”

“Of course, inspector.”

Jack pulled the photo of his team out of his pocket. He hadn’t really thought about why he stuck it back in there when he changed, but he was glad he had.

“Do you know any of these men?” He tried not to hold his breath; he hoped that she _would_ know something—and that she would tell him.

“Well now,” she said, pulling a pair of reading glasses out of a pocket in her apron. She lifted the photo up, angling it to catch the light. “Oh my goodness, you’re all so young! This must be from the war.” She clucked her tongue. “So many wasted lives in that war. Let’s see… here’s you, inspector, and that’s Simon, isn’t it? And… well, I’ll be. That looks like Ned Johnson.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide behind her spectacles. “Imagine, the three of you knowing each other all those years ago.” She shook her head, removing her glasses, and handed the photo back to Jack with an apologetic air. “I don’t know these other two, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, taking it. “This man,” he turned the photo toward her and tapping the space above Nick’s head, “is the one you said looked like this Ned Johnson, then? Interesting.”

“So you don’t know Ned?”

Jack shook his head. “No, the man in this picture died in the war. I wonder whether Ned Johnson knew him, if the resemblance is so pronounced.” He picked up his fork and dug back into his dinner, feigning mild interest at best. “Maybe if he’s around, I’ll talk to him.”

“Oh, Ned only comes to town every couple of weeks,” Mrs. Manning replied, taking a dainty bite of her food. “And he was just here a few days ago.”

“Was he? Does Simon know him?” Jack did his best to sound casual. _This was innocuous dinner conversation,_ he reminded himself.

“Oh, well, I don’t know, inspector,” Mrs. Manning looked at him, her fork suspended. “I don’t think so.”

“How long ago was Ned in town, do you remember?”

Mrs. Manning laid down her fork and took a sip of water. “Let’s see, it was right about the time that Marge Peterson had that row with Mr. Devereaux, and that was a week ago, I think? They’re still not talking, and all over the price of coffee.” She shook her head, as if despairing of her neighbors, and went back to her meal.

Jack’s fork faltered for just a moment before he continued to calmly eat. Simon had disappeared seven days ago—three days before Jack had arrived in Hermannsburg. It could be a coincidence, but Jack’s gut was telling him it wasn’t.

“Well, they say that everyone has a twin, don’t they, Mrs. Manning?” He smiled at her. “This is delicious—what did you say you used in the gravy?”

She chattered on at him happily about her mother’s recipe for meatloaf and mashed potatoes and Jack listened with half an ear. He was becoming antsy again, this time with the urge to finish decoding Simon’s notebook. There was something going on here, and he really hoped that Simon wasn’t in a world of trouble.


	5. Chapter 5

**Day ten**

Dawn was breaking when Jack finally closed Simon’s notebook at the last page used. He leaned back in his chair, considering what Simon had written, his head aching from working by candlelight all night.

It had taken him three hours just to come up with the new code key—he supposed that was a considerable improvement on his cracking of the previous code—and then another eight hours to get through six months of Simon’s notes. The notes on the first four months Simon had been in town were similar to those from the previous areas he’d visited—he must have changed the code as a general precaution. Jack had begun to despair that there wasn’t anything about Nick in the notebook at all when he reached the entries starting six weeks before Jack had arrived in town.

 

> _I have seen a ghost. Today, when I was in town, I saw a man loading supplies onto a small cart outside the general store who looks enough like my friend Nick Johnstone to be his twin. It can’t be Nick, surely? Nick died on a mission in 1918; it beggars belief that he could be here in the Northern Territory of Australia more than ten years later. The man didn’t see me before he set off toward the west with his cart and mule; when I asked Will Devereax about him, he called the man Ned Johnson. I tell myself that there’s no chance that this man I saw is Nick, but I can’t help feeling that it would be wonderful to see my friend again._

 

Jack had redoubled his efforts at decoding after that, wishing he’d thought to ask Mrs. Manning to make him a pot of coffee. A few pages later, he found another entry.

 

> _It’s been two weeks since I saw the man who looks like Nick. I kept a careful eye out, watching for him; Will says that he comes in every two weeks to pick up a standard supply order. I tried to put the thoughts of him aside, but I saw him again today. He was still too far away for me to get a good look, and I didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself by yelling and shouting to get his attention. So I watched again as he left town. It could be my imagination, but he moves like Nick, with that tracker’s smoothness that helped Nick be silent as he spied on the enemy during the war. Next time, I’ll approach him, spectacle be damned. I need to know that this isn’t my friend, so that I can stop wondering._

 

Jack had decided then that he couldn’t continue without a boost, so he made his way to Mrs. Manning’s kitchen in search of coffee or tea. As he quietly rummaged through the cupboards, prepared the percolator to brew, and lit the stove, he thought about what Simon had written.

“He moves like Nick”—Jack remembered that. Nick had been the best hunter among them, able to find a trail, be it game or man, and so quiet as he moved through the countryside that it was almost spooky. He’d been an expert at sneaking up to the German camps they were surveilling and finding a spot so close that he could hear every word they said without them ever knowing he was there. He understood German—they all did, whether they spoke it or not—and getting that close was difficult.

The team had thought that this might have been what killed him, in the end. That he’d snuck up on someone and through some fluke, been discovered. Jack’s worst nightmare was that Nick had not died in the field as they’d all been told, but that he’d been taken by the enemy. It was generally the same thing—prisoners of war had routinely been killed “accidentally” between surrender and internment—but if the Germans had realized that Nick was Intelligence, they might have tried to force him to share sensitive information.

With a sigh, Jack turned off the stove, gathered up the percolator and a mug, and paid for another handful of candles before heading back to his room. He had miles to go before he slept.

Back in his room, his first cup of coffee drunk and the second poured, Jack dived back in. The third entry about the man who looked like Nick was dated three weeks ago.

 

> _I saw him again today. This time, I was closer, and I got a good look at him. He looks just like Nick, and his reaction when he saw me was rather telling. His eyes got wide and his face went white. He almost didn’t wait for all of his supplies to be loaded before he hopped onto the cart and took off. I tried to catch him—I didn’t call his name, but I followed as quickly as I could. Didn’t work. He must have taken a shortcut, because I lost him just after he left town. It was just as well, since I wasn’t prepared for the bush, and he obviously wasn’t going to stop._
> 
> _If it is Nick, why wouldn’t he stop? He can’t think that I’d be anything but happy that he’s alive. He was my closest mate in the unit—why wouldn’t he want to talk to me? So maybe it’s not Nick, and he’s just some bushman who’s worried that I’m paying him too much attention._
> 
> _I still need to know, and I have a plan for the next time. I’m going to hitch a ride into Alice Springs and send a telegram to Jack—he’s an investigator, and if this is Nick, we need to start through unofficial channels; Rodger would have to report that Nick (or someone who looked like him) had been seen, and I don’t want to make trouble for him. When I come back to Hermannsburg, I’m going to put together a travel pack so that the next time he comes to town, I’ll be prepared to follow._

 

Jack shook his head, refilling his cup. He could feel Simon’s hurt at the idea that Nick—if it was Nick—would run rather than talk to him. They had been close in the war, the best of mates. Why would Nick have run?

Why would he be here in the Northern Territory, anyway? _How_ would he be here—why wasn’t he dead, as they’d all assumed? The first thing the Intelligence brass would think was that he’d deserted, but that wasn’t like Nick. If he’d wanted to desert, there would have been some indication before he’d done it, and he’d been utterly normal that last evening—or as normal as war could be—joking with Simon and Jack as usual before leaving to relieve Rodger. Later, when the three of them had been asked whether they thought he might have deserted, they all had dismissed the idea out of hand. He’d been in high spirits, Rodger said, when he’d come to take over the watch; he’d grinned at Rodger’s watch location and whispered that he could do better.

They all thought that he’d tried to “do better” and had ended up being caught. Nick wouldn’t have left them all behind. They were family. Jack sniffed once and wiped at his eyes quickly, shaking his head.

No. There had to be another explanation. If this _was_ Nick, there was a reason he’d never come back. There had to be. And Jack knew now that Simon had gone to find out what it was.

Jack went back to the notebook; there were only a few more pages. He rubbed his eyes and set to work. When he came to the last entry in the book, he caught his breath. It was scrawled, as if written in a hurry, and addressed to him.

 

> _Jack, I’m convinced now. Nick is alive, and I’m going to follow him out into the bush to find out what happened to him. I hope to be back before you arrive, but if I’m not, find a woman named Alinga Jaminjung—her grandson, Ganan, helped Nick pull his cart home one time when the mule came up lame, so he can guide you to Nick’s house. Come find us. —S_

 

Jack grinned as he finished decoding the last letter. If Simon said that he was convinced Nick was alive, Jack believed him. Simon must have seen Nick that last day and come back to his room to get his gear and dash off this note before setting off after Nick. Jack wondered whether he’d managed to track Nick—Simon was good, but Nick was better. He hoped Simon had found him, or there’d be an actual missing persons search to be undertaken soon. Simon knew how to survive in the bush, but accidents happened to everyone—wild animals, unknown terrain, even the weather or the sun could kill you out here.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Jack stood, stretching. He’d take the coffee pot back downstairs and then get a few hours sleep before going to find the gear he’d need—and the guide Simon had recommended.

*****

Several hours later, after a hard sleep and some lunch, Jack entered the general store. He’d told Mrs. Manning that he was planning to go walkabout while he waited for Simon, to “make the most of his vacation time.” She’d loaned him a shoulder bag and some gear that had been her late husband’s—it was old but serviceable, so all he’d really need was food. He also planned to see if he could find the Aboriginal woman that Simon’s last note suggested—he was still trying to figure out how he could ask after her specifically, when he wasn’t supposed to have any information from Simon at all. He rather hoped he’d just run into the woman he’d seen that first day with Mr. Devereaux—she might be the person he was looking for, or know where to find her.

“Going walkabout, you say.” Mr. Devereaux looked him up and down as Jack piled his purchases up on the counter. Fruit, some dried meat, nuts, and some bread and cheese, plus a hunting knife, as Mr. Manning’s had gone to rust; Jack didn’t think he’d be gone too long, but it was best to be prepared.

“Yeah, just for a bit. Something to do while I wait for Simon.” Jack gave a small smile.

“Be sure to leave your direction with the police, in case they need to find you later.” Devereaux’s voice was almost insulting, and Jack clenched his jaw, smiling a little more.

“I actually thought I might hire a guide to take me out for a night. D’you know of anyone who’d want to earn a little money guiding me around?”

Devereaux looked at Jack hard. “There’s a local boy—Abo, if that bothers you—who does some guiding. He might be willing to take you out, if he’s around.”

“Doesn’t bother me. How can I get in touch with him?”

“I’ll let him know you’re asking. He’ll find you.”

“Appreciate the help,” Jack said, gathering up his purchases and heading out. He could feel Devereaux’s eyes on his back until the door closed behind him.

*****

With his supplies packed and ready, Jack found himself pacing, waiting for this young native boy to find him. He needed to get out. Even if the boy found him today, it was going on four o’clock, and chances were they’d have to wait till morning to leave anyway. With a shake of his head, he stripped down to his singlet and trousers and headed out on Mrs. Manning’s bicycle.

He decided to explore the roads around Hermannsburg, such as they were—the town had one main road feeding into it from Alice Springs, but there were a number of smaller, less-used roadways winding around. They looked mostly like wagon tracks, though Jack had seen a car or two come through town over the last three days. They made for challenging riding, bumpy and rutted, and that took the lion’s share of his attention. He was thankful for it—it was a relief to have nothing more pressing to dwell on for a little while.

Jack allowed the part of his mind that wasn’t busy calculating angles and obstacles to wander freely, noting the eucalypts and acacia growth that made the late-spring air fragrant. He breathed deeply, taking the scents into his lungs. Not quite like home, but similar, if you filtered out the smell of heated dust. Movement in the sparse undergrowth caught his attention—a red kangaroo moved away from him as his tires whirred beneath him on the road. On a whim, he took a path that wasn’t as well defined as even the wagon tracks had been, hoping that the old bicycle would hold up to the rougher terrain. _Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by._ He hoped it’d make a difference. He wanted the feeling of his muscles aching with effort; he’d need it to sleep that night, if the Aboriginal guide that Devereaux promised didn’t show.

With an effort, Jack wrenched his thoughts from that pathway. This ride was supposed to take his mind off the case for a bit. He pedaled harder, working his way back around to what passed for the main road, Robert Frost echoing in his head as he pumped his legs in rhythm to the poetry. _Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, / and sorry I could not travel both / and be one traveler, long I stood / And looked down one as far as I could / to where it bent in the undergrowth._ The poem, long since memorized, beat in the back of his head; he felt the sun streaming down on his bare shoulders and the sweat dampening his clothing. These suit trousers would likely never be the same, but he’d decided he needed to save the hardier denim ones for the next day’s walkabout. Ah well, he was planning to submit his expenses to Rodger anyway, once this was over—a new suit shouldn’t be beyond the means of the Intelligence Service.

He glanced up at one point as a small plane buzzed overhead, making him think of Phryne. He wished she was here—she’d hate the conditions, but he’d like to have her as an investigative partner right about now. He’d also like to appreciate her other charms, though he wasn’t sure whether that would be possible in Mrs. Manning’s tiny house. His grin as he stood on the pedals to put on speed was predatory. The idea of Phryne Fisher in her high-fashion clothing and her French perfume staying with him at Mrs. Manning’s was almost funny. _I’d have to work hard to make the lack of indoor plumbing up to her. At least the bed is a double._ He chuffed out a laugh at his own wishful thinking.

He curved his body to the left, turning back onto the main road to head back to town. He’d need a new book this evening after dinner. _I wonder what Mrs. Manning has on her bookshelves. Her husband was a teacher, so there’s likely to be something to read there._ He’d finished the novel he’d brought with him on the train, and he hadn’t had a minute to stop and read since he’d arrived in town. _Fiction would be best, I think, if she has any. I wonder if Mr. Manning enjoyed adventure stories?_

As he sped past the general store, he noted Devereaux out front talking with the small Aboriginal woman Jack had seen his first day in town. He hoped that was Alinga Jaminjung, the grandmother of the boy Simon had recommended he find. He half hoped that the boy would come to see him tonight, and half hoped he’d wait till morning. Jack was tired and sweaty and ready for dinner—two hours of riding would do that. If the boy came tonight, it would likely be to set up a departure time in the morning. He could live with that.

Breathing hard from the last push, Jack pulled to a stop behind Mrs. Manning’s. He stopped by the shower enclosure out back, ducking his head and torso under the tepid spray to get the worst of the road dust and sweat off. He didn’t have a towel, so he ran his hands down his arms and chest to sluice off the worst of the wet, then shook himself to get as much as he could out of his hair. He knew that he looked a complete wreck, but at least he wouldn’t smell as he headed in to his room to change.

He entered through the back door, intending to go straight there, but Mrs. Manning’s sweet voice stopped him at his door.

“Inspector, is that you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Manning,” he responded. “Just me!”

“Oh good! Will you come to the sitting room, please? I have a surprise for you.”

Jack’s eyebrows lowered in confusion. A surprise for him? That was… odd. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to push it off his face as he continued down the hallway to the front of the house.

“Is everything all right, Mrs. Manning?”

“Oh yes,” she said with what sounded like a giggle.

He rounded the corner from the hallway into the sitting room and stopped dead. Mrs. Manning had company, and before he could apologize for his appearance, his eyes and his nose registered who that company was. Phryne Fisher, dressed in her flying costume, sat balancing a china teacup on her knee as she turned to look up at him with a smile.

“Hello, darling!” She trilled. “Surprise!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Day ten**

When Jack appeared in the doorway to the delightful Mrs. Manning’s sitting room, Phryne almost didn’t recognize him. He wore his suit trousers and a white singlet, and his hair was completely disheveled and unrestrained by pomade. He was also wet from the waist up, his singlet nearly transparent, the discs of his nipples visible and their points distended. Her mouth went dry.

The shock on his face when he saw her was delicious—and his lack of immediate response meant that she could fill him in on the ruse she’d concocted. She licked her lips and smiled brightly at him. She hoped he’d be amenable to her plan.

“Hello, darling! Surprise!” She quickly set down her teacup and stood to greet him, laying her hands on his chest and leaning in to kiss him quickly. His hands came up almost automatically to her grasp her upper arms. She laid her cheek against his damp one on the side away from Mrs. Manning and whispered into his ear.

“I told her that I’m your wife,” she breathed, and felt him shudder.

Pulling back, she beamed at him. He looked at her, his mouth open, and she saw the smile rise in his eyes and move over his face.

“Darling, I’m a mess—don’t let me get you all wet. What are you doing here?” He rubbed his hands on her arms, and his voice was as warm and low as she could have wished. With time away from him, she always thought that her memory was exaggerating the way his voice made her feel.

“Well, you said you’d be back in a little over a week, and I’m afraid I got lonely.” She affected a tiny pout, her fingers tracing the line of his singlet’s neckline. Blinking, she dropped her eyes to her fingertip. His skin was very warm beneath the wet chill of the cloth.

“I know—I’d hoped I could call, but there isn’t a telephone that I could find in town.” Phryne tore her gaze away from his exposed chest to see him raise an eyebrow at her. With the slightest smirk, he glanced at Mrs. Manning, who shook her head.

“I’m afraid not—and the closest telegraph office is in Alice Springs.” Her expression was sympathetic. “You didn’t tell me that you were married, inspector! And to such a lovely young adventuress!” Phryne could tell that the landlady was thrilled with this new information about the inspector’s personal life.

“Force of habit, I’m afraid, Mrs. Manning. In my line of work, it’s not wise to let the people I come into contact with know that I have something so dear in my life.” He smiled at the older woman, and Phryne leaned closer to his chest, damp be damned. She was enthralled by this looser, less careful Jack.

“Well, you two go on now and get ready. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.” Mrs. Manning’s eyes twinkled at them as she made shooing gestures and rose to go into the kitchen.

Phryne had a sudden thought, and she swiveled to look back at their hostess, her eyes wide. “Oh, I didn’t think to ask—is there enough for me to join you? I don’t want to impose.”

“Not to worry, not to worry,” Mrs. Manning said, waving her concern away. “There’s always plenty to go around.”

“Even with Jack at your table?” Phryne’s smile up at Jack was flirtatious. “You must cook enough for an army!”

Mrs. Manning laughed. “I do like a man with a healthy appetite. My late husband was that way. Ate everything in the house and skinny as a bean.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Manning,” Jack said, shaking his head at their teasing. He smiled down at Phryne. “Do you have luggage?”

“I do—just a small bag, since I flew in.” She gestured to where the bag sat beside the doorway. Jack dropped a kiss to her forehead and released her, taking the bag in one hand and her hand in the other.

“Come on, then,” he said, tugging her through the doorway toward his room. “Do you need to freshen up before dinner?” His voice was low as they walked away.

“A quick wash would be nice. Maybe a change of clothes.” She glanced down at herself. Her flying clothes and tall boots were both fashionable and warm in the cool air at altitude, but it was hot down here on the ground.

“Let’s drop your bag off and I’ll show you the amenities.” He grinned a little wickedly at Phryne, and she gave him a suspicious sideways glance, though she danced inside. She loved it when Jack was playful.

“What aren’t you telling me, Jack?” Phryne asked, her eyes narrowing at him.

“Well, it’s not exactly the Windsor, Phryne,” he said softly, opening the door to his room and gesturing her inside.

“Will you be here with me, Jack Robinson?” She stepped through the door and turned to him, her eyes on his face. His eyes, so changeable in the light, were dark blue right now. He set her bag down to one side and closed the door behind himself, leaning back against it as he looked at her.

“If you’ll let me,” he replied softly.

In reply, she flung herself at him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders and her mouth closing warmly over his. She pressed herself against his still-damp chest, and felt his arms come around her, his large hands spreading across her back as he kissed her in return, his lips slanting hungrily over hers.

Dropping his hands to her hips, he lifted her up, and she obliged him by wrapping her legs around his waist. He turned to press her against the wall beside the door, his hips pressing into her as she fumbled at the buttons of her jacket.

“Please, Jack,” she whimpered between kisses, “I want your hands on me.”

“Phryne…” he groaned, and when her jacket was open, he slid his hand inside, covering her breast through her silky camisole. “God, you feel so good!” Tucking his fingers under the camisole’s top edge, he tugged, freeing one breast; he dropped his head to take her exposed nipple into his mouth, and Phryne gasped at the sensation. She pulled with her legs around his hips, wanting to feel his hardness pressing against her as he suckled.

He was muttering against her skin—she couldn’t quite understand the words, but his deep voice thrummed in her ears. With a moan, she slid her hand down to pull up her skirt and push her hands between them to pull at the fastenings of his trousers.

“God, Jack, please… I need you…” She slid her hand inside his smalls to grasp his cock, its skin hot and tight. He groaned again, pulling the other side of her camisole down and covering her bare breast with his hand. He glanced up at her.

“Protection?”

“Already in place, Jack. Please, come inside me!” Tugging at his cock, she guided him between her thighs, pushing aside her knickers and notching him at her entrance. He raised his head and she pulled him into a kiss as he pushed himself inside her; each one’s soft moan was muffled inside the other’s mouth.

Jack slid his arms around Phryne and hoisted her against his chest. “Hold on, love.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing her mouth to his neck. Turning, he took three steps away from the wall and reached to rotate the desk chair; Phryne moaned as his cock jolted inside her body with each step. He sat, misjudging the distance slightly so that he dropped harder than expected, and Phryne cried out in pleasure at the rather forceful thrust that resulted. She opened her mouth to bite at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and Jack’s hands spasmed against her.

“Jesus, Phryne,” he said, and moved one hand to pull at her hair, bringing her mouth back to his.

Phryne kissed him, her tongue spearing into his mouth as she dropped her feet to the floor and used them to brace herself as she she flexed her thighs to fuck him. She set her hands on Jack’s chest, her fingernails toying with his nipples through the damp singlet he still wore. She lifted her head, panting, to look at Jack. His face was a study in ecstasy, with half-closed eyes and half-open mouth, his lips were reddened—both from her lipstick and from the pressure of her mouth—and his cheeks were flushed.

His eyes stayed on her face as he slid his hands down to cup her breasts, fingers and thumbs pinching at her nipples as she did the same to him.

“You feel so good, Jack,” she whispered, and it was true. His cock was large and wide and she could feel it stretching her as she slid it into and out of her body.

“You feel better than good, Phryne,” he rumbled. “So tight and wet and hot…” His breathing was labored, and he ducked his head to take her nipple into his mouth again, licking and sucking in rhythm with the movements of her hips. His hand dropped to where their bodies were joined, and she felt him trace a line up her thigh to her mound before sliding two fingers down to play with her clit.

Phryne whimpered at the sensation of his fingers on her most sensitive flesh; one of her hands moved up to brace at the back of his neck and the other delved inside his singlet to toy with his bare nipple. His fingers between her legs began to work harder, rubbing and pressing and stroking against her flesh until she could feel every tiny movement as a shock that ran all the way up her body.

“Come for me, Phryne,” he growled against her breast before liftin his chin so that he could meet her eyes. She had a moment’s flashback to the private closet at the gentleman’s club where she’d performed her fan dance. She’d sat on his lap then, too, with his mouth against her breast—but if his fingers had been doing _that_ , she’d never have walked away. Still holding her eyes, he gently gripped her nipple between his teeth and pulled lightly, while he pressed the heel of his hand against her clit and slid his fingers down to massage the stretched flesh around his cock.

With a cry that she did her best to muffle by rolling her lips together, Phryne came, her orgasm breaking over her in wave after wave of sensation. She felt Jack’s shout, his mouth pressed against her breast, and the warm pulses of his release deep inside her body.

Boneless, she melted against him, tucking her head into his shoulder and sliding a hand into his hair. His arms wrapped around her, and he pressed a kiss to her temple. She could feel him softening inside her body, the sensation suffusing her with a strange tenderness.

“That wasn’t _quite_ how I pictured our first time,” he murmured in her ear, his hands stroking her back.

She lifted her head to catch his earlobe between her lips, giving it a little lick. “I’m not complaining, darling Jack.”

He shivered a little and tilted his head, giving her better access to his ear. “We should probably get ready for dinner. I think we have about five minutes before Mrs. Manning’s going to call us.”

Phryne chuckled a little. “I’d bet she’ll understand.” She released his ear and met his eyes. “I missed you, Jack Robinson.”

He smiled at her, stroking her hair back from her face. “I missed you too, Phryne Fisher.”

“You’re not angry that I’ve come, then?”

“Oh, I hope that you’ll come many more times before we’re through.” His smile was wicked, and she threw her head back and laughed. “And no, I’m rather glad you’ve arrived, to be honest. I could use your help.” He sobered slightly, and so did she. “I’ll fill you in on what’s going on here after dinner.”

“Then we’d better make ourselves decent,” she said, pushing herself off of him. She felt a slight pang of loss when they were parted, but comforted herself that she’d have him again before too long. Turning to her bag, she pulled out a light dress and clean underthings. “Now, where were those amenities?”

“Ah yes, about that.” He stood, tucking himself back into his trousers. “This town has very few amenities, Phryne. No indoor plumbing, no electricity. Mrs. Manning has a shower, not fancy, but it’ll get you clean.” He lifted a hand to the back of his neck. “I’ll understand if you decide that you can’t stay. It is rather… primitive compared to Melbourne.”

Phryne looked at Jack. He’d fixed a rather sheepish glance on her. He was actually thinking that she could shag him and then leave? Well, to be fair, she had done things like that before, but this was Jack. And he’d said he needed her. She was staying. And if she got to shag him again—multiple times, she hoped—well, that was a bonus.

“You forget, Jack, that I grew up in Collingwood. I didn’t have indoor plumbing until we moved to England.” She sauntered closer to him, laying a hand on his chest. “Besides, Hermannsburg appears to have other things to recommend it.” She leaned up to kiss the slowly growing smile on his handsome face. “Show me the way, inspector!”

*****

Jack showed Phryne to the shower and headed back to his bedroom to use the pitcher and basin there to clean himself up for dinner. He stripped down quickly, washing the residue of their lovemaking off of his skin and pulling on his other pair of suit trousers and a clean singlet before shrugging into one of his dress shirts.

Jack turned to the small mirror mounted on the inside of the wardrobe door to run a comb through his hair and saw that he still had her lipstick smudged on one of his cheeks. He reached for the washcloth to take it off, meeting his own eyes in his reflection as he rubbed. He couldn’t believe that Phryne was here, and that they’d told Mrs. Manning that she was his wife, so she’d be spending the night in his room. In his bed. And holy mother of god—his hands froze, washcloth pressed to his cheek—he’d shagged her for the first time up against a wall, followed by a desk chair, both of them fully clothed. How had that happened?

He huffed out a small laugh and finished washing up. It had happened because she was Phryne Fisher and he’d been torturing himself with visions of fucking her since he’d realized they were on that path. And since he’d been in Hermannsburg, those fantasies had been his only solace. It was no wonder he’d ravished her, given the first opportunity. Thankfully, she had ravished him back.

He shook his head and took up his comb again, neatening his hair as much as he could. He didn’t want to bother with pomade—he had begun using less when he got here, since it seemed to set him apart from the locals even more—but his hair was very thick and didn’t like to cooperate. It helped that it was still wet.

As he stretched to pull his braces up onto his shoulders, he realized that he was humming—he broke off with a laugh when he realized the song was Cole Porter’s “Let’s Do It”; it seemed that they already had, and much as he might wish that he’d been able to hold off until he could properly worship her body, he couldn’t regret what they’d done. Phryne had come here for him. Perhaps her motivation had at first been the promise of sex that they’d been dancing around for ages, but since there were quite a few men in Melbourne who could have provided her with orgasms, he had to believe that her willingness to stay despite the town’s lack of comforts had to do with her wanting to be with him, specifically.

He turned to smile at Phryne as she ducked into the door, her gauzy dress fluttering. “Everything all right?”

“Smashing,” she said, returning his smile and sidling up to where he stood by the wardrobe, buttoning his shirt. “Is there room for me to hang my things in here?”

“Absolutely. Allow me—” he reached to move some of his things around and took the jacket from her. “Do you want to unpack your bag? There’s plenty of room.” He slid open one of the drawers to show his meager wardrobe taking up only half of the space. “The rest are empty.”

“Don’t we need to get down there for dinner?”

“There’s time. You didn’t bring much.” He arched his eyebrows at her single bag.

“I know. Mac would be proud. But the plane only has so much space.” She looked at him as she transferred her lacy underthings to the drawer beside his. He felt a warmth growing in his chest at the sight. “There’s room for you, though, for the ride home. When you’re finished here, of course.”

Jack’s face must have shown his surprise. “For me?”

“I mean, if you trust me to fly you home. I’m a very good pilot.” He could tell that she’d been going for breezy in her tone, but her uncertainty at his willingness to fly with her came through.

“I don’t know, Phryne,” he teased, drawling at her in obvious humor, “is your flying as interesting as your driving?”

“I’m an excellent driver, Jack!” She huffed in mock affront. “And my flying is impeccable. You’ll even like it better because there are fewer things to avoid in the air than on the road.” She grinned at him, closing the drawer.

He reached out and pulled her close, kissing her newly lipsticked mouth gently, so as not to smudge her.

“I would go anywhere with you, Phryne Fisher. You just lead the way.”

Her eyes soft, she laid a hand on his cheek and kissed him back, her lips clinging warmly to his. Pulling away slightly, she spoke against his lips.

“Come on then. The first place I’m leading you is in to dinner.”

With a laugh, he squeezed her and then let her go, and she curled her hand around his bicep and led him out of the room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Day eleven**

Phryne woke slowly, the sun on her face bringing her grudgingly out of sleep. She lay still, comfortable on her stomach with her arms tucked in beside her, smiling softly as she remembered where she was and what had happened. She’d decided over cocktails with Mac that the nine days Jack had been gone was far too long. When Mac had asked her what she planned to do, the answer had come to Phryne fully formed. She’d go after him, of course.

After the decision had been made, the rest had been easy. She’d called the airfield to have her plane readied, including enough fuel to make the round trip, and she’d set off early the following morning. The flight had been longer than she’d expected—close to ten hours, even at top speed. She’d fuelled herself with sandwiches sent by Mr. B, and by the time she’d reached Hermannsburg, she’d been exhausted, but excited to see Jack. She’d asked after him at the general store and been directed to Mrs. Manning’s—she’d only made it to the boarding house a half-hour before Jack returned.

And what a return it had been! His welcome had been everything she’d hoped for and more. She shivered a little at the memory. She’d known that Jack had deep passions hiding under his stoic exterior, and she’d been thrilled to be proven right. Unfortunately, the second round she’d been anticipating for after dinner was not to be—she’d climbed into bed, ready to seduce him, but she’d fallen asleep after he’d left to use the outhouse. Perhaps she could remedy that this morning.

Shifting, she turned her head on the pillow to look at Jack. He was lying on his side, facing her; his eyes were open and watchful, and a smile played around his mouth. His shoulders were bare, one arm tucked up under the pillow, the other draped over the coverlet, his hand resting close to her hip but not touching her.

“Hello, Jack,” she murmured, rolling to face him and fidgeting to keep her short satin nightgown from tangling around her. He was adorably mussed in the morning light, sunshine glinting off the stubble on his cheeks, his hair curling wildly. His blue eyes were sleepy and warm as they studied her.

“Good morning, Phryne,” he rumbled, his smile growing wider. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“I am exactly where I want to be. Although…” She shifted, sitting up so that she could pull her nightie up and over her head and toss it to the side. She heard Jack catch his breath, and she lay back down, closer now, pressing her bare breasts to his chest. “Yes, that’s better.”

Jack’s hand stroked up her side to cup her breast gently, his thumb stroking her hardened nipple. “You are so beautiful,” he breathed, and then he kissed her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth before she could protest at what she feared was her atrocious morning breath. After a moment, she ceased to care, falling into the kiss. _How did Jack Robinson taste so delicious in the morning?_

Phryne stroked her hand down his side to cup his naked hip— _He’d come to bed naked! She wouldn’t miss that the next time—_ pulling him over her as she rolled backward against the bed. His weight upon her body was a welcome one, and she stroked her hands up his back as he settled between her thighs, his already hard length nestling into her quickly dampening cleft. He pushed his hands beneath her shoulders to cup her head, continuing to kiss her in that bone-meltingly satisfying way he had. She moaned against his mouth, bending her knees out to allow him more space and tilting her hips so that his cockhead rested solidly against her clit.

He flexed his hips, sliding himself against her, and Phryne felt her muscles loosen as her desire built. When his cock began to slip in her growing wetness, he pushed harder, wedging himself between her labia and continuing to massage her clit with his cockhead, bumping and rubbing it with every stroke. Phryne could feel his fingers in her hair, his hard length stroking her between her legs, and his tongue in her mouth, and she shuddered—this was Jack, her Jack. He was really here, really real. Quite suddenly, she wanted him inside her, and she slid a hand between them to touch him; as he pulled his hips back, she pushed his cock downward to her entrance.

“Oh god, Phryne,” he muttered against her mouth, as he pushed his hips slowly—so slowly—forward, embedding himself within her. He seated himself fully, his belly tight against hers, her breasts pressed against his chest, his mouth on hers.

Phryne set her feet flat against the bed, wrapping her arms around his back, her palms flat to feel his muscles bunching as he began to move, slowly at first, and then picking up speed. He didn’t pull his chest away from hers, so his hips couldn’t go far, but his shorter strokes were aimed beautifully, the swing and swivel of his hips and the pressure of his pelvis against her clit sending rockets of sensation through her. As his momentum built, she pulled one hand up to grasp the back of his head, her fingers tunnelling into his messy morning hair as she whispered his name and “yes” and “please” into his mouth.

When Jack came, she heard him say her name into her neck and felt his muscles shudder against her, inside her. With a whimper, she followed him over, one leg lifting to wrap around his thigh and hold him close, her fingers curling to press her nails into his back and scalp.

Phryne stroked her fingers through Jack’s hair, soothing the small pinches made by her nails. _This beautiful man,_ she thought as she kissed him, her lips sipping at his.

“Right exactly where I want to be, Jack,” she whispered, feeling his smile grow against her mouth at the words.

*****

Lying on his side beside Phryne again, Jack marveled at her. She was tracing a finger through the hair on his chest, her eyes on patterns only she could see. He stroked her arm softly, his legs still entangled with hers under the blanket. He was still rather amazed at her presence, both here in Hermannsburg and in his bed.

He’d watched her sleep for half an hour this morning, riveted by the sunshine on her shoulders with their light dusting of freckles and the way her jetty hair lay mussed across her sharp cheekbones. He’d wanted to just look at her the night before, when he’d come back from washing up to find her fast asleep and his heart had squeezed in his chest. But instead, he’d shucked his pajamas— _if he couldn’t see her, he wanted to feel her_ —then blown out the lamp and climbed in beside her, resting a hand on her satin-clad back under the covers and breathing her in.

As he’d closed his eyes to sleep, content in her company, he found himself thinking back over the evening. They’d had an enjoyable dinner with Mrs. Manning—Phryne was very good at getting people to talk, and Edna (as she’d insisted Phryne call her) had been no exception. They’d learned quite a bit about the people of the town, including Alinga Jaminjung and her two grandsons, Ganan and Darel.

“Oh, her paintings are just wonderful,” Mrs. Manning had told Phryne. “She usually does those dot ones, you know. So colorful.”

Jack, having had no time to give Phryne an overview of what was going on, had turned his foot to tap hers when Mrs. Manning began to talk about Alinga. Phryne, bless her, had realized what he wanted, and had drawn Mrs. Manning out on the subject.

“I’d love to see her work, wouldn’t you, darling?”

Mrs. Manning had nodded, cutting into her chicken. “Well, she works with the Lutherans, over to the mission—they sell her pieces for her. Alinga does rather well, I think. She’s raising those two boys by herself—their parents, bless them, died in the same flood that took Simon’s. Darel was only a little thing then—he’s ten now, and Ganan is sixteen. Good boys, the both of them.” She’d shaken her head as she took a bite, continuing after she swallowed. “I do wish she’d let the boys go learn how to function in society, though. She sent Ganan out into the bush with a tribe elder to learn how to track; he earns some extra money now with it.”

“Does he work as a guide?” Jack had kept his voice light, but curious, conscious of the sharp glance Phryne was aiming at him. “Because Mr. Devereaux over at the store said that he knew a boy who’d done guide work.” He’d looked at Phryne. “I’d thought I’d go out in the bush for a day or two while I waited for Simon to come back.”

“Oh, that sounds delightful! I’ve always wanted to go walkabout. Do you think he’ll take the both of us?” Her voice had been excited. Jack had heard her meaning, though: _Not without me, you don’t._ He smiled at her.

“I don’t see why not,” he’d said calmly, laying a hand over hers on the table. “Besides, you just got here—I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Phryne had nodded easily, going back to her dinner and joking with Mrs. Manning about Jack’s eating habits and his time in town.

Looking down at her now, Jack found that he was very happy to have her company, and not just for the sex. Jack met her eyes, his voice low. “I’m sorry that I didn’t get a chance to tell you about what’s been going on before dinner last night.”

“Well, I didn’t really give you much of a window, did I?” Her smile was sly, and she curled her fingers to tug on his chest hair.

“Notice that I’m not complaining at all, Miss Fisher.” He leaned in to press a kiss to her bare lips. “And I did some distracting of my own.”

“You did, Jack, and quite handily too.” She kissed him again, then pulled back. “But no more distractions! Tell me everything.”

“I’ll tell you what I can,” he temporized. When she opened her mouth as if to object, he shook his head. “Some of it is classified, but I can tell you enough, I think.”

She made a small “hmph” noise, but subsided as he gathered his thoughts.

“This goes back to the war.”

“Doesn’t everything, really?” Her small smile was wry, and he knew that she truly understood. He smiled back.

“Starting in 1916, I was assigned to be part of a five-man Intelligence team. Mostly, we gathered information on German troop movements. Three of us survived the war—me, Simon Rowell, and Rodger Mitchell. Both of them stayed in Intelligence after we got home, and Rodg is now a rather high muckity-muck.” He smiled at her small laugh, then his smile faded. “The other two men in our team… they didn’t make it. Bernie Bertrand killed himself in 1917 after he was forced to witness something… well, so awful it doesn’t bear thinking about.” He flashed her a tight smile as she stroked him, responding, no doubt, to the tension that filled his muscles. “And Nick Johnstone disappeared in early 1918. Missing in action and presumed dead.”

Phryne leaned in to kiss him, and Jack closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of her mouth and the taste of her rather than on the memories of that time. Her hand on his chest stroked his skin softly, and when their lips parted, he sighed, his eyes opening slowly to focus on her face again.

“Thanks,” he said softly. Swallowing, he went on. “So it’s been more than ten years since we came home from Europe. Rodger, Simon, and I kept in touch—after so long together, we’re practically family.”

“How is it I’ve never met them?” Phryne said quietly. “Or even heard about them?”

Jack furrowed his brow, his expression puzzled. “Simon lives out here, so we mostly communicate by letter, and Rodg is in Sydney. We talk on the phone sometimes, or write, and once in a while one of us will end up in the other’s town.” He looked at her, shaking his head slightly. “I suppose I don’t talk about them because, well, you just didn’t, in the job we did. It’s a habit not to.”

“I look forward to meeting Simon, at least, when we find him.” She looked up at him slyly. “I’m sure he’ll have some lovely stories to tell.”

Jack laughed quietly and kissed her, unable not to. “I’m sure he will.”

“All right, then,” Phryne said quietly. “That’s the beginning. So where are we now?”

“Right,” Jack sighed. “I got a telegram from Simon the day I left Melbourne. It contained only the date and location of Nick’s disappearance and the word ‘emolument.’”

“Better not wait.” Phryne’s expression was surprised.

He had known she’d understand the code. “Exactly. I knew that it must have meant that he found something out about Nick.”

“And if it was about Nick, and he telegrammed you rather than Rodger, it had to be something that he didn’t want going through official channels.” Phryne was nodding.

“That was my assumption too. So I called Rodger to pull some strings with the Chief Commissioner, and hopped on the first train up here.” He lifted a hand to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “My only regret was missing dinner—and, I hoped, lovemaking—with you.”

“Thankfully, I’m not one to let anything get between me and my desires for long.” Her grin was cheeky.

“And I am thankful for it,” he said, kissing her again, his tongue slipping inside her mouth. After a minute, he broke away with a soft groan. “Wait, not done with the story. Um…”

“You left Melbourne before you could succumb to my womanly wiles…” Phryne prompted with a smile.

“Yes. So I left on the train that day. The trip was awful—did you get my last letter before you left?” He raised his head to look at her.

“No, nothing new had come since I mailed my letter. Did you get it?”

“I did. By the time you read my reply, it will be old news.” He smirked at her. “It was rather… racy.”

“Mmm, I like racy. I’ll look forward to reading it when we get back to Melbourne. Maybe you can read it to me, Jack. In my bed.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed in thought. “That could be an excellent idea, Miss Fisher.” He shook his head. “Anyway. The trip was awful—I can tell you later if you want to know—and when I finally got here, Simon was gone. The townspeople said that he’d gone walkabout, something that he apparently does often. But I knew that he wouldn’t have left for just anything, because he’d know I’d be coming. So I searched his room.”

“Jack!” Phryne’s eyes lit up. “You didn’t!”

“I did,” he replied calmly, trying not to smile. “You are a terrible influence on me. I searched his room and found a notebook, which turned out to be written in code. I’ve spent the days since I got here decoding it and asking around the town. The townsfolk generally seem to be suspicious of me—likely because I’m the police, and this is Simon’s home town. They’re loyal to him. But that means no one will talk to me.”

Phryne’s expression was surprised. “And they’re not worried that he’s been gone, what, a week?”

“They say they aren’t, and no one seems to be looking for him.” Jack shook his head. “But I finally got through the notebook yesterday. Phryne, Nick’s alive.”

“What?” She propped herself up on one elbow in surprise, looking down at him. Jack nodded.

“Simon left me a message in that notebook. Nick’s alive and has been living in the bush. Simon went out a week ago to find him. There has to be a story there.” Jack clenched his jaw. “Nick wouldn’t have deserted. I don’t know how he got here, or what happened to him, but I know that much.”

“Oh, Jack. You don’t think that Nick would harm Simon?”

“I hope not, but I can’t rule it out. If Nick did desert, and we turn him in, he could be executed. The threat of that could make a man do many things.” Jack swallowed hard. “I had intended to hire a guide who might know where Nick is living, and go looking. That’s what I was talking about at dinner.”

“We can still do that. I’m no wilting flower to be left behind, though I’ll need some supplies.” Phryne laid down again, snuggling close to Jack’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her and dropped a kiss to the top of her head.

“I know it, and I cannot tell you how happy I am that you’re here. It will make things easier, having my partner to help me.” It was true, and he hoped she could hear it. They worked better as a team than they did individually, and with her here, he felt more hopeful than he had in days.

“You, Jack Robinson, are the best of men,” she murmured against his chest. He felt her press a kiss to the space over his heart, then lower, her tongue flicking over his nipple.

“We should get up, get your supplies, see if we can find that guide.” He swallowed as her kisses headed lower, preceded by her hands. “ _Phryne_ ,” her name was a groan as he felt the warm heat of her mouth close over his cock. She looked up at him as she swirled her tongue around his head, her eyes laughing. “Well, maybe just a little longer. If you insist.” And then he had no more intelligible words for quite some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen it, traditional Australian Aboriginal art is gorgeous—the "dot kind" of paintings that Mrs. Manning (bless her heart) refers to—[here’s a link](https://www.google.com/search?q=australian+aboriginal+art&espv=2&biw=937&bih=934&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjY3vjq5ubNAhVp3IMKHXJeBKQQsAQIGw) to some images.


	8. Chapter 8

**Day eleven**

Phryne eyed Jack as he held the door for her out of Mrs. Manning’s house. She’d been shocked to see him attach his burgundy suspenders to a pair of denim workman’s trousers and pull them up over the shoulders of a white button-down shirt. He’d rolled the shirtsleeves up, leaving the top button at the neck open, and pulled on a pair of boots. If she hadn’t just ravished him before they climbed out of bed, she’d have been tempted to do it now. She’d never seen him so casually dressed, but she understood why when they wandered out into the town.

Phryne’s tall boots and mid-calf linen skirt paired with a gauzy blue blouse were not so different from what the other women in town wore—admittedly, her parasol and round sunglasses were a little fashion forward—but Jack would have looked very out of place in his usual three-piece suit. Even the town constable, standing at the doorway of the police station, was not wearing the woolen jacket that was part of his uniform. She couldn’t blame him, really—it was terribly hot.

“You look very dashing, Jack,” she murmured as they walked arm in arm down the main street toward the general store.

“Why, thank you Miss Fisher,” he responded. “I confess, I am trying to blend in.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s unlikely.” She peered up at him, her lips twitching. “You’re far too handsome for that.”

He tilted his head at her, that tiny sideways smile tweaking the left side of his mouth. _Oh, that mouth._ Her thoughts drifted to what his mouth had done to her before they’d left their bed that morning, and she blinked, wrenching them back to what he was saying.

“More likely, everyone will be looking at you and I’ll be able to fade into the background.”

“Well, of course they will,” she laughed, and she was aware of how it rang out on the quiet street. “That’s the intention, isn’t it?”

“I just hope that you’ll have better luck than I have at getting information.” He pushed open the door to the general store and she breezed past him with a knowing smile, closing her parasol.

*****

Jack followed Phryne into the store, watching as she worked her magic.

“Good morning,” she sang out to Mr. Devereaux, who appeared to be counting something in small white boxes at the main counter. “I believe I neglected to introduce myself yesterday—” she advanced on him, her hand in its blue lace glove outstretched “—Phryne Fisher-Robinson.” Devereaux, bemused, shook her hand gingerly. “Thank you ever so much for helping me find my husband. He was terribly surprised to see me.”

Jack took his cue and smiled fondly at her. It was only partly an act. He loved to watch her dazzle people—back home, he’d huff as if it offended him, but he really did admire her charisma. She’d sometimes fall back on her image as a flirty dillettante, but more often she allowed the fact that she genuinely cared about people and their lives to shine through.

“Jack was telling me this morning that he had spoken to you about a guide who might take us out to the bush while we wait for Simon to come back?” She folded her hands on the counter. “Have you heard from him?”

“Um, Ganan?” Mr. Devereaux blinked at her. Jack knew that her beauty could render a man speechless; she knew it too, and used it when she needed to. “I… uh… I haven’t seen him, actually.”

“Oh, so you haven’t had a chance to speak with him?” Phryne’s voice was disappointed. “Well, no matter—could you direct us to his home? Now that Jack has suggested it, I really do want to go exploring. I’ll need some appropriate clothing, of course—perhaps a pair of those denim trousers would do.” She glanced at Jack, and he swallowed. He loved it when she wore trousers.

Mr. Devereaux blinked again. “Er, yes, we might have some that would fit you.” He came around the counter and led them to the appropriate shelf. Rummaging through the stock, he came up with a pair that he thought might fit and handed it to Phryne. She held the trousers up to her waist and looked at Jack, her eyes laughing.

“What do you think, darling, will they fit?”

Jack eyed her—the trousers did look about right, but… “You’ll need suspenders, or a belt, I’m afraid.”

“I can help with that,” Mr. Devereaux practically leapt to be of assistance. He led them to another part of the store where he presented Phryne with a wide leather belt.

“Perfect, mister…” She looked at him expectantly.

“Oh, I am sorry! It’s Devereaux, Guillaume Devereaux. Though everyone calls me Will.” And with that, he smiled—actually _smiled_ , to Jack’s astonishment—at Phryne.

“Lovely to meet you, Will.” Phryne beamed at him. “Now, Jack, is there anything else we’ll need for our little adventure?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so. Mrs. Manning was kind enough to provide me with a travel pack and camping supplies. All we need now is a guide.”

Phryne looked back at Mr. Devereaux expectantly.

“Oh, of course,” he said, bustling back to his counter. “Alinga Jaminjung—that’s Ganan’s grandmother—lives just down the road. I’ll draw you a map.” He noted Phryne’s purchases down in his inventory book, took her money, and pulled out a small piece of paper. Sketching swiftly, he talked through the directions to the woman’s house, and then to the Lutheran Mission that Mrs. Manning had mentioned. “She might be up there as well, working.”

“You are a life saver, Will—thank you again for your help!” Phryne took Jack’s arm, handing him the parcel Mr. Devereaux had given her.

“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Fisher-Robinson,” he said, resting his hands on the counter. He flashed a look at Jack, who was pretty certain that it was envious—Devereaux would be thinking what a lucky man Jack was to have caught a woman like this one. Jack agreed, wholeheartedly, so he nodded quietly and led Phryne out into the sunshine.

*****

“Another conquest, Miss Fisher,” Jack murmured as they set off to follow Will Devereaux’s instructions.

“Don’t be like that, Jack,” Phryne said, laughing up at him as they walked. She held her parasol open with one hand and cupped the other over his bicep, loving that she had only the fabric of his shirt sleeve between her palm and his skin. “He was very helpful, once I got past his reserve.”

“He definitely likes you better than he does me.” Jack gave her a wry smile.

“Too bad I’m already taken then.” She looked up at him through her lashes, enjoying the way it made him swallow.

“Indeed.” His eyes were hot as he looked at her. “And I do hope I’ll have a chance to take you again later.”

“I’m certain I could be persuaded.” Her smile was sly, and she hugged his arm, pressing her breast against him.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head. “Business first. Let’s find this young man and hire him. The sooner we find Simon, the sooner we can get back to Melbourne.”

With a chuckle, Phryne applied herself to helping navigate to Alinga Jaminjung’s house, a smallish bungalow with a pair of rocking chairs set underneath a tree out front. They knocked on the door and waited, but no one answered.

“Hm, shall we head over to the Mission?” Jack looked at her. Phryne turned from peering in the windows at the cottage and nodded. Devereaux, like Mrs. Manning, had mentioned that if the woman wasn’t at home, she could usually be found at the Lutheran church, which also worked to bring local artists’ work to the public.

“I think we must. That’s not all bad, though. I would like to see her artwork.”

“All right, then.” He turned and offered her his arm again. Phryne stepped up close and took it, curling her hand around his bicep again. He smiled at her and leaned in to drop a kiss on her mouth.

“I do like that, Jack,” she purred. She opened her eyes, realizing only then that she’d closed them. _What this man does to me,_ she marveled.

“So do I,” he said with a smile. “Come on then.”

He set out along the road; the Lutheran Mission wasn’t too much farther down the road away from the main street of town, but she was glad of her parasol. The day was clear and hot, the sun beating down on them as they walked.

“So tell me, Jack,” she said, “what were you doing yesterday when I arrived that had you so hot and sweaty? I’ve never seen you so undone.”

“Ah, I borrowed a push bike from Mrs. Manning and went out for a long ride.”

“In just your singlet and trousers?” She slanted him a glance. “How daring of you.”

“Well, I wear less when I cycle at home—”

“ _Do_ you? I’d like to see that,” she purred.

“You can see me without even that, if you like,” he rumbled quietly, his eyes dancing.

“I look forward to it, inspector.” She squeezed his arm again, enjoying the flex of his muscles.

He tilted his head at her, his mouth quirking slightly upward. “There’s some beautiful country around this town—I know it looks very barren in parts, but there’s a lot to see.”

“I’m rather looking forward to going walkabout, if I’m honest.” Phryne gazed around them, noting the dry, packed earth that stretched beneath the sparse trees. There had been an ongoing drought in this part of the country for years, she knew, but it was also a naturally dry area, like much of the Interior.

“Have you ever been into the bush?” Jack’s question was quietly concerned.

“No—have you?”

He nodded. “Twice. Once during training before we were sent to Egypt, and once after the war, with Simon.”

“Should I be worried?” Phryne’s voice was light, but her question was a serious one.

“I don’t think so—we’ll be with a guide, and I’ve done enough time outside of the city to know how to navigate. But it will be hot, and dirty, and there are likely to be wildlife to be wary of.” He glanced down at her.

“Spiders, you mean?” When he nodded, she shuddered. “I’ll brace myself for them. It’s only when they catch me by surprise that I’m truly afraid.”

He leaned close to press a kiss to her temple. “I’ll do my best to keep them away from you.”

“My hero,” she laughed up at him, and his quiet chuckle warmed her.

“Here it is,” he said, nodding toward a small white building. Phryne eyed it doubtfully.

“This?” The building was rectangular and tall, its white plastered walls giving it a cool and inviting look. It had a single door on one of the short sides and two tall windows on each long side. A large tree grew about twenty feet in front of the main door, and some benches had been set out beneath it. It looked nothing like any of the mission buildings she’d seen in her travels around the world, though it did make sense that it’d be simpler out here—with fewer windows, it’d likely stay cooler inside, and the high, pointed roof would also help the heat move away from the worshippers.

“All right, then,” she said, “lead on.”

*****

Jack stepped up to the roughly hewn wooden door, Phryne at his side. He wasn’t sure what to expect here—he knew from his conversations with Mrs. Manning that German Lutherans had founded the town of Hermannsburg, beginning with a mission, late in the previous century. The missionaries had left before the turn of the century, but the church had stayed on, ministering to the community that had built up around it. These days, in addition to services, the church acted as a sort of art center—there were classes for all ages and a staff that had built a network of art contacts to distribute the works of the local painters to galleries around the country.

Stepping into the church, Jack paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. As he blinked, he heard Phryne let out a soft gasp. The entryway was a smallish room with a door set in the center of the opposite wall. The walls themselves were covered with art—framed watercolor canvases hung side-by-side with oil paintings done on chunks of wood; small tables sat at intervals, holding pottery bowls and sculptures of animals and people, all painted in the colorful Aboriginal dot style.

“Oh Jack, _look_ at these pieces!” Phryne breathed out the command, drawn toward the nearest table as if magnetized. “They’re gorgeous…” She lifted one of the sculptures up, a clay turtle that fit in the palm of her hand, its bright green shell and darker green body accented with dots and swirls of yellow, red, and white that gave the piece an inexplicable sense of motion.

“You like them?” The voice was a woman’s, and unexpected. Jack turned to see the elderly Aboriginal woman he’d seen the first day he’d arrived in Hermannsburg. She was sitting in a high-backed wooden chair in the corner of the room, a small table centered over her knees. She held a thin paintbrush in one hand; her other steadied a bowl so that she could reach its inner walls.

“They’re gorgeous,” Phryne said with a grin. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see the woman, as Jack had been. She turned and stepped closer, holding out her hand. “Phryne Fisher-Robinson—are you the artist?”

The woman set down the paintbrush and shook the extended hand. “I am, of some of them. My name is Alinga Jaminjung.”

“Are your works for sale, Mrs. Jaminjung?” Phryne looked down at the woman’s worktable, then up at the walls.

“They are.” The woman’s eyes were wary, Jack thought, as she surveyed first Phryne and then him.

“Splendid!” Phryne moved toward the walls, examining each painting as closely as she could, her hands behind her back.

Jack shook his head fondly at her and stepped toward the artist. “Jack Robinson,” he said, holding out his hand. “We came here looking for you, actually, though I think my wife has forgotten that in her enthusiasm over your art.” He raised his voice a little on the last part, knowing that Phryne could hear him.

“I haven’t forgotten, darling,” Phryne called out as she leaned close to a bark painting of a kangaroo, “But beautiful art is a reward in itself.”

“Just remember that we only have so much space for the trip home, will you?” His voice was wry.

“Nonsense!” She flashed a smile at him and a small wink at Mrs. Jaminjung. “I’m certain that there’ll be a way for them to ship the pieces I purchase.”

Jack turned back to the artist, who was watching them with surprised eyes.

“Yes, well,” he said, raising a hand to the back of his neck, his lips quirking slightly. “Mr. Devereaux down at the general store said that your grandson does some bush guide work, and we were wondering whether we could hire him.”

Mrs. Jaminjung, her face serious, looked at him. “Why do you want to go to the bush, Mr. Robinson?”

Jack returned her gaze. He could tell her what he’d told the others, that he just wanted to pass the time before his friend returned, or he could tell her the truth. He pressed his lips together for a moment, then spoke.

“You know, I’m sure, that I’m in town to visit Simon Rowell. Do you know him?”

She nodded, but didn’t comment.

“He’s been gone over a week, and I’m worried. He knew that I was coming up from Melbourne, and he wouldn’t have stayed away so long. I can’t sit and do nothing. Simon’s my friend, and if he’s in trouble, I want to help.” He gazed at her, watching to see if her expression changed. He thought that he detected the slightest tic of an eyelid when he mentioned wanting to help, but then she blinked and he couldn’t be sure.

“We told Mr. Devereaux that we just wanted to go out for a lark,” Phryne said quietly. Jack hadn’t heard her approach, but he wasn’t surprised that she was so close. “Because he thinks that Jack’s here to cause trouble, but really he’s here to help.”

“And why are you here, Missus?” Mrs. Jaminjung’s voice was low, her dark eyes narrowed on Phryne.

“I’m here in Hermannsburg because I missed my husband,” Phryne said candidly, her eyes on the artist, slipping an arm through Jack’s, her hand grasping his bicep. “And I can tell you that he is an honorable man who cares deeply about those he calls friend.” Jack looked down at her, awash for a moment in the wonder of having her beside him, touching him.

When he looked back at Mrs. Jaminjung, she was looking between them and her solemn expression had softened.

“My Ganan will guide you,” she said with a decisive nod. “He will come for you at Edna’s early tomorrow morning.”

“Wonderful!” Phryne beamed at her. “And now, please, I’d like to buy a few things.”

As Phryne moved off to indicate the pieces she wanted—squeezing Jack’s arm before her hand slid away—he continued to look at the older woman, who was setting her work aside to follow.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Simon is a friend to many in this town. It is good that he has other friends too.” She nodded quietly at him and moved away.

*****

Jack shifted the bundle of parcels, switching them from one hand to the other as the twine they were tied with began to cut into his fingers.

“What on earth did you buy, Miss Fisher?” He said, looking down at the stack. Some were round-cornered and soft-looking; others were clearly boxed pieces of art.

“Well, I found gifts for almost everyone—figurines for Jane, Dot, and Mac, a bowl for Mr. B and another for Aunt P—and a gorgeous bark painting for my office. I even bought something for you, Jack!” She smiled up at him, her arms swinging. She carried another, smaller stack of parcels that was obviously considerably lighter than Jack’s—she’d wound the twine around the fingers that held her parasol.

“Should I be afraid?” His smile was small, but he was delighted by her.

“Oh, don’t be like that. You’re going to love it.” She stepped closer, taking advantage of the fact that his arm closest to her was parcel-free to wind her hand around it. “She also told me that the nights out in the bush get very cold, so just in case we’re out for a couple of days, she found some second-hand flannel shirts and coats for us. I paid for them, of course, but we can give them back when we return.”

Jack’s surprise must have showed on his face. “You made a good impression, then.”

“You did too, Jack. I think what clinched it was that you told her the truth, and that you weren’t too proud to ask for help—for a guide.”

“I almost wish I’d found her earlier—though if I had, you wouldn’t have had a reason to come out here.”

“Oh, I had a reason all along, Jack. I just wouldn’t have had to wait,” she said, pressing close to his arm.

“Have I said how glad I am that you’re here, Miss Fisher?”

“I’ll admit, I did have some idea of it.”

They exchanged a warm glance, and Jack leaned down to press a kiss to her temple.

“Right. If we’re going out tomorrow, I’ll write a letter to Rodger tonight, to let him know what’s going on.”

“Won’t that mean he has to log a report?” Phryne’s eyes were concerned. Jack felt a warmth rising in his chest—she didn’t know Simon or Nick from Adam, but she was worried about them because they were important to him.

“I’ll encode it and send it to his home, give him some basis for plausible deniability if it comes to that. But I don’t want to leave him in the dark any longer. He’s worried, too.”

“That’s true. Have you written him before now?”

“No, I didn’t have any answers for him. This will be different—and it’ll mean that someone will know where we’ve gone, if it comes to that.” His tone was grim. He didn’t really think there was danger—or not much danger, most likely—but it paid to be cautious.

“I’ll write a letter to Mac, as well, ask her to raise the alarm if she doesn’t hear from us within a week.” She looked up at him, her face serious. “Just in case.”

He nodded. “So, letters first, then dinner and packing. A full evening for us.”

She smiled again, slyly. “Just so long as there’s a little more time in the schedule for…”

“Extracurricular activities, Miss Fisher?” Jack looked at her, knowing that the desire he felt would be evident in his eyes.

“Indeed, inspector,” she purred, her fingers squeezing his bicep.

“Have no fear on that score,” he leaned in to murmur in her ear. “I have plans for you tonight.”

“I have some plans of my own, Jack.”

“Then what do you say—let’s get back to Mrs. Manning’s, and finish our work so that we can play.”

“I say…” She stepped away from him and lowered her parasol. “I’ll race you—winner gets the first shower!” Tucking her parasol under her arm, she broke into a run, glancing back at him with laughing eyes.

Jack let out a shout of laughter and followed her lead. After all, he had a very good incentive—though really, even if he lost the race, he’d already won.


	9. Chapter 9

**Day twelve**

Mrs. Manning bustled around Jack and Phryne the next morning, serving them a hearty breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, and bacon.

“You’ll be needing your strength, going out in the bush,” she said, her eyes twinkling down at them. Phryne smiled up at her, and Jack had to force himself to look away from his “wife.”

He was still reeling from seeing Phryne dressed in the new denim trousers, held up by the wide leather belt; she’d tucked a red flannel shirt in at the waist, though it was unbuttoned just far enough to show the top edge of her camisole underneath. As a finishing touch, she had somehow tucked the trousers into her tall leather boots—the whole ensemble looked as if it had come from Madame Fleuri’s.

His mouth quirked as he remembered her reaction to seeing him flabbergasted by her outfit. “I’m glad you like it, Jack. I think these denim trousers will be all the rage someday. They do very good things for your… assets, as well.” And with a smirk, she’d run her hand over his bottom.

“You take such good care of us, Edna—thank you!” Phryne dug in to her breakfast with gusto.

“Oh, now,” the older woman scoffed. “I just want you two to have a good time. You be careful out there, too—the local wildlife can be dangerous.”

“All the time spent with Phryne has given me hope that I’ve experience with dangerous creatures,” Jack deadpanned, taking a bite of his bacon, his eyes on Phryne.

“Jack!” She laughed, lifting her coffee to her mouth. “You’ll give Edna the wrong impression about me. I’m innocent as a lamb.” He’d smiled at her laughing eyes, unable not to.

Their landlady laughed heartily. “I’ve only known you a little while, Mrs. Fisher-Robinson, but even I can tell that’s a whopper of a fib.”

Phryne grinned, pleased, and was about to say something when there was a knock on the boardinghouse door.

“That’ll be young Ganan now,” Mrs. Manning said, bustling over to open the door. Sure enough, as Phryne and Jack swiveled to see, the open door revealed a young Aboriginal man. His hair was a light brown streaked almost blond in places, and it waved around his face; his skin was not as dark as his grandmother’s, and when he grinned at Mrs. Manning, his teeth were very white.

“Come in, child,” she said easily, and stepped aside so that he could enter. He set his pack down beside the door. “Have you eaten? Come have some breakfast.” She led him back toward the table and gestured to the empty chair at Jack’s left. “Sit, I’ll get a plate and make up some eggs.”

“Thank you, Missus Manning,” he said, his voice quietly respectful. Looking back at Jack and Phryne, he laid his hand on the chair back, his eyes questioning.

“Please, sit,” Jack said. “Mrs. Manning’s breakfasts are wonderful.” When the boy pulled the chair out and sat, Jack held out his hand for the lad to shake. “Jack Robinson. This is my wife, Phryne Fisher-Robinson.” Jack felt a thrill at the words—he didn’t know whether they were ever likely to be truth, or whether he even wanted to marry again, but at least for this little while, it was a lovely fantasy.

Phryne held her hand out as well, and Ganan took it, looking a little bemused. “Hello,” she said with a smile. “You must be Ganan Jaminjung? Your grandmother is lovely, and an absolute shark at art sales.”

Ganan chuckled softly. “I am, and yes, she is. It’s served her well. My grandmother said that you were wanting to go and look for Simon Rowell?” His eyes, up close, were a very dark brown, and as serious as his grandmother’s had been. _He was willing to listen, then,_ Jack thought, _but planning to make up his own mind._

Jack glanced at the kitchen, then back at Ganan. “We are, yes, though we haven’t told Mrs. Manning that. Didn’t want to worry her.”

“Simon is very good in the bush. We might not find any trace of him.” Ganan’s words were matter-of-fact.

“It’s good, then,” Phryne said seriously, “that we have an idea of where he was going.” The boy’s eyes swung to her, surprised, and she didn’t look away. “We can talk about it when we get going.”

Ganan nodded, and switched his attention to Mrs. Manning, who brought in a plate piled high with eggs and bacon, and a large bowl of oatmeal.

“There you are, Ganan,” she said, setting the plate down in front of him. “You eat up. You’ll need stamina to keep up with these two.”

Ganan’s eyes lit up at the sight of the food, and he dug in. In the time it took Jack and Phryne to finish the second half of their portions, he’d cleaned his plate. Mrs. Manning watched him as she ate her own breakfast.

“Teenage boys and their appetites,” she said softly, smiling.

“Some boys stay that way,” Phryne said with a chuckle, smiling at Jack over the rim of her coffee cup. He tilted his head at her, his lips twitching in amusement, and drained his own coffee.

“Shall we get going, then?” Jack pushed away from the table; Phryne and Ganan nodded and pushed their chairs back as well. “Thanks for another wonderful meal, Mrs. Manning—we’ll be back tomorrow, most likely.”

“All right,” Mrs. Manning said with a smile as she, too, rose to start clearing the dishes. “You’re in good hands with this one,” she nodded at Ganan, who smiled shyly at her as she moved off toward the kitchen.

“Let’s go,” Phryne said, rubbing her hands together in excitement. “This is going to be fun!”

*****

“So where is it we’re going?” Ganan walked between the two of them down the main street of town. All three of them carried good-sized packs and water skins, their bedrolls strapped to the outside. Phryne wore her floppy khaki hat to block the sun; Jack had come down wearing his fedora, only to have Mrs. Manning tsk and tell him it wouldn’t do. She’d dug in a closet and pulled out a wide-brimmed straw hat that had been her husband’s.

“This will do you better, inspector,” she’d said. “It breathes, like, so you can have the shade without holding in the heat.” Jack had thanked her and put it on, smiling at Phryne’s charmed grin. She’d been right, too—they’d been walking for twenty minutes, and he barely felt the hat’s weight on his head.

“Simon headed out of town to find a man named Ned Johnson,” Jack said quietly. He was pretty certain that no one was listening, but he didn’t want the information to go too far. “I understand that you helped Mr. Johnson carry supplies back to his cabin once?”

Ganan gave him an odd look. “Where’d you hear that?”

Jack shrugged. “Is it true?”

“Yeah,” Ganan said. “It’s true. Ned’s a nice guy.”

Jack nodded. “I’m sure he is. Do you think you could find your way back there?”

“Sure.” Ganan looked at Jack, his eyebrows furrowing. “What’s Simon want with him?”

“Not sure,” Jack said, his eyes straying to Phryne. “He left me a message, said that this Ned Johnson fellow might be a relative to someone we knew in the war, and that he’d seen him come into town every couple of weeks but hadn’t been able to catch him.” Jack shook his head, looking back at Ganan. “I guess he had the opportunity to catch up with him right before I arrived.”

“So you think that Simon followed Ned out into the bush, then?” Ganan frowned slightly. “Simon would’ve been able to follow Ned, no problem,” he said, “but why wouldn’t he be back yet?”

“My question exactly,” Jack said quietly.

“It’s about three hours’ walk to Ned’s place,” Ganan said. “What will you do if Simon’s not there?”

“I don’t know yet, to be honest,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Improvise, I suppose?”

Nodding, Ganan gestured to the left, and pulled a little ahead of them as they moved out of town. Phryne moved closer, tucking her hand into Jack’s.

“You are quite good at improvisation, Jack,” Phryne said quietly, in a voice meant only for Jack’s ears.

“As are you, Miss Fisher,” he responded, threading his fingers between hers and bringing her hand up to his mouth to kiss her knuckles.

Her eyes were soft as she looked up at him, a smile on her lips.

“I like this,” she murmured. At his quizzical look, she continued. “Being together. Knowing that it’s all right for me to tease you, that you won’t mind if I kiss you.” She tugged their twined hands to her own mouth, pressing her lips to the back of his hand.

“I like it too.” Jack looked at her, knowing that his heart must be showing in his eyes. “Whatever this is, I want it to go on forever.”

She smiled, her unpainted lips lovely and pink against her teeth. “Well, I can’t promise forever, Jack—no one can—but I definitely don’t want it to end.”

“Will it be different, do you think, when we’re back in Melbourne?” His voice was quiet. He searched her eyes, hoping for… what?

“Of course it will, Jack,” she said, her own voice gentle. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t still be good.”

He smiled at her, tugging her close to his side. “Fair point, Miss Fisher. Fair point.”

*****

 _The bush wouldn’t be so bad,_ Phryne thought, watching her step carefully, _if it weren’t for all the spiders._ She’d seen seven in the nearly three hours they’d been walking— _But who’s counting?_ —and she was quite certain that at least two of them had been large enough to actually kill and eat a human. She shuddered.

Jack, walking beside her, reached for her hand. “You all right?”

“Mmm,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could manage. “Just wishing that the wild wasn’t quite so wild, if you know what I mean.”

His smile was gentle. “We’re nearly there, I think,” he assured her.

“Yes, but what happens then?” She shook her head. “If we’re lucky, the both of them will be at Ned’s house just having a long-overdue chat. If we’re not, we’ll be starting from scratch again.” She sighed a little. “I’ll be all right. Like I said—as long as the buggers don’t sneak up on me, I can handle them. Mostly.”

Her lip curled as movement in a tree to one side of the track they were following drew her eye—letting out a breath at the sight of a dove shifting on a low branch.

“It’s just over here.” Ganan’s voice was low, and he looked back at Jack.

“Hold on a moment,” Jack responded, giving Phryne’s hand a squeeze before jogging to catch up to their guide. “I’d like to take a close look first, before we rush in.”

The boy looked at him, long and hard, but nodded his acquiescence. “Just there,” he said quietly, gesturing toward a small berm.

Jack nodded. “You stay here, Ganan.”

Glancing back at Phryne, Jack moved up the rise, keeping himself behind the scrubby trees to get a look at the cabin that was their destination. She followed, snugging up behind him. The cabin itself was small—likely only a single room inside—but there was a three-sided shelter on one side that provided shade for a sleepy-looking mule, and a fenced area for the animal to roam in. On the other side was a coop where several colorful hens pecked in the dirt in front of a small henhouse; the area was enclosed on all sides with chicken wire, likely to keep predators out.

There was a small window on either side of the door to the cabin; they appeared to be unobscured by anything like curtains.

“If we go in from the side, we should be able to peek in the windows without being seen,” Phryne kept her voice quiet, and with her lips so close to his ear, she couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Jack flashed a smile at her and nodded his agreement, so she moved to the side to circle around. Jack followed, both of them moving as quietly as they could, and keeping low. In a couple of minutes, they’d managed to crouch under the cabin windows—Phryne to the right and Jack to the left—with no more noise than the mule’s long-suffering sigh.

In unison, they stretched upward to peek through the windows. From her angle, Phryne could see two men in the cabin’s tiny kitchen area. One man stood at the stove, cooking what smelled like eggs and toast, his blond hair unkempt and his cheeks hollow. The other, sitting at the table, had dark hair and eyes and a golden tone to his skin. He held his hands in his lap, and he seemed relaxed. He glanced at the window and his eyes widened—he’d seen Jack! Phryne drew in a breath to warn Jack, but at that point the man brought his hands up onto the table and she could see that they were bound together with twine. Glancing again at him, she saw now that his feet were bound to the chair legs as well.

The seated man, who must be Simon, looked back at the other—Nick?

“Nick—”

“ _Ned_ , Simon. That’s my name now. You need to use it.” Nick turned from the stove to look at Simon, and Phryne ducked, but not before she’d seen his eyes. They were very blue—even from this distance, she’d been able to see them blazing from his suntanned face—and filled with a pain that seemed unbearable.

“Sorry, Ned. What I wanted to ask was when are you going to let me go? It’s been a week. I’m sure to have been missed.” Simon’s voice was calm, unhurried. “I’m not going to give you up,” he went on, “I’m your friend.”

“I know you are,” Nick said, his tone desolate. “But you work for Intelligence! We’ve been over this, Simon—how can I ask you to lie for me? If you were found out…”

“Nic— _Ned_ , you’re not asking. And what’s the alternative? Will you keep me tied up here forever?”

Nick raised his hands to his head, as if it ached. “I don’t know! I don’t know, Simon—I wish to God that I did.” He dropped into a chair, resting his elbows on the small kitchen table.

Jack’s eyes met Phryne’s. His jaw clenched, and she could see that he was working through something. She tilted her head at him, waiting.

With a short nod, he held up one hand and whispered, “Stay here.”

She opened her mouth to argue, her head already shaking in a negative, when he stood and rapped on the door—a pattern of long and short spaces that Phryne was certain was a message in Morse code, but that she couldn’t translate with her heart beating so quickly. She rolled her lips together, glaring at Jack. He glanced down at her and made a quick motion with his hand that she knew meant _move back_.

“You be careful, Jack Robinson,” she hissed, shuffling backward so that she wouldn’t be directly visible to anyone opening the door. His glance at her this time included a small smile and a tight nod.

After a moment, Jack repeated the special knock, and Phryne paid attention this time. _Dah dah dah, dit dit, dah dah, dit dah, dah, dit. O I M A T E._ She stifled a snort. Only a team of Australians would make their secret code “Oi, mate.” Jack glanced at her again, his eyes dancing as he realized she’d translated it.

When the door opened, it did so with a rush, and Phryne couldn’t see who’d swung it wide. That was good—it meant whoever was in the doorway couldn’t see her either.

“Jack,” she heard Nick’s voice say, its tone disbelieving.

“Nick. Good to see you again, mate,” Jack’s tone was calm.

“What are you doing here, Jack?” Nick’s voice was almost pleading now, as if he didn’t want to hear Jack’s reason, as if it would be too much to bear.

“Why d’you think I’m here, Nick?”

“ _Ned_. It’s Ned now.” His voice had an edge to it that was almost frantic, Phryne thought, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. “And I can’t go back. I can’t—you can’t make me.” And Phryne heard the sharp click of the gun’s hammer before she saw its deadly barrel glinting in the sun.


	10. Chapter 10

**Day twelve**

Jack spread his hands out to his sides to show that he was unarmed—he could see that Nick was at the end of his rope. He just hoped that Phryne didn’t do anything rash.

“Ned, hold up—I’m not here to take you in.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Phryne backing slowly away. _What is she up to?_ “I’m just happy that you’re not dead, mate.”

“I _was_ dead, Jack,” Nick’s hand shook and so did his voice. “I was dead for a long time. And by the time I was alive again, you were all gone. And I knew that if I came back, they’d lock me up. So I didn’t go back. I can’t go back.”

From down the wall by the chicken coop, Jack heard approaching footsteps, and then Phryne’s voice.

“Jack? Darling, is he here?”

Jack didn’t look toward her, keeping his eyes on Nick, but he sent up a prayer that her ploy helped, rather than making Nick panic. Jack really would prefer not to get shot today.

Nick’s eyes widened, terror filling them, and his fingers on the gun’s handle tightened to whiteness. Jack tensed, ready to dive to the side if Nick pulled the trigger, but after a moment, Nick closed his eyes and let the gun fall to his side.

“I can’t kill you, Jack, and I can’t hurt a woman.” His voice was defeated and dull.

“Of course you can’t,” Jack said, his voice gentle. “You’re a good man, Ned.” Lowering his hands, he turned to Phryne, who’d stopped just out of Nick’s line of sight. He nodded at her.

“Ned, I’d like you to meet someone—this is the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher.” He held out one hand to her and she took it, stepping close. Nick looked at her, his eyes wet, obviously trying to control his expression. “Phryne, this is Ned Johnson, an old friend of mine.”

“Pleased to meetcha, miss,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m that sorry for all this, I really am.”

“It’s all right,” Phryne said, keeping her voice soft as well. “The war left its scars on all of us.” Jack squeezed her hand.

Nick swiped a hand across his eyes and took a step back. “Would you like to come in?”

Jack nodded and stepped in, Phryne’s hand still in his. When she didn’t immediately move, he looked back at her, the tilt of his head questioning.

“Ned, we left our guide up on the hill—may I go and fetch him?” She looked at Ned. “His name is Ganan Jaminjung.”

“Ah, yes, right,” Nick stammered, his eyes widening again. “That would be… perhaps I could just, er, straighten up a bit?”

Bless her. Jack’s lips curved in a small smile. Give Nick a chance to untie Simon before Ganan gets here.

“Brilliant. I’ll just be right back with him, shall I?” With a quick kiss on Jack’s cheek, she squeezed his hand and let go, turning to head up the hill.

When she’d gone, he turned back to Nick. The other man had already moved across the room to the table, where he was untying Simon’s hands and feet.

“If you can take us back to town tomorrow, I can send Ganan back without us. Give us a chance to talk?” Jack kept his voice steady as he watched Nick neatly roll the twine that had bound Simon. He’d heaped the rags that had protected Simon’s skin on the table, and the smaller man was rubbing his wrists.

Nick nodded, but his hands stilled. “Yes, I can do that.” He looked up at Jack. “Your lady is staying?”

“My partner, and yes—I don’t think she’d leave, so…” His smile was wry. “If you want me to, I’ll ask her, but she’s trustworthy.”

Nick shook his head. “No, it’s all right.” He looked at Jack as he folded the cloths. “It’s good that she wouldn’t leave you. But…”

“What is it?” Jack moved into the cabin, sitting down at the table across from Nick. He eyed Simon. “You all right?” Simon nodded but didn’t speak.

“Well, I thought you were married? In the war.” Nick’s words brought Jack’s gaze back to him.

“Ah. I was, yes. Rosie.”

“That’s the one—I’ve been imagining you with your wife and kiddies, having family outings and holidays. Like in the books.” He tucked the twine and cloths into a drawer and pulled out the chair opposite Jack.

“Rosie and I never had children. And we divorced almost a year ago.”

“Your Miss Fisher?” Nick narrowed his eyes at Jack. “I never pegged you for a cheater.”

“No, it had nothing to do with her—or at least, not directly.” Jack sighed. “It took Rosie and me close to ten years to realize that being apart for the war years had changed us both in ways that made us… well, we didn’t work anymore. It was for the best.” He glanced up at Nick, his smile wry. “Phryne came along after Rosie moved out, and she kind of… shined a light on everything that had been wrong with my marriage.”

“You called her your partner?”

“She is.” Jack nodded, then shook his head. “Not sure how that happened. She’s a private investigator, and she’s been a great help. She just kind of… invites herself into my cases, and then doesn’t leave.”

“You called her a nuisance the first time you mentioned her in a letter,” Simon said. His deep voice was tight, still worried, but trying to help keep the atmosphere in the cabin light.

Jack chuckled. “And she was. A damned nuisance, and so smart you wouldn’t believe it. She makes these logical leaps…” He shook his head.

“Beautiful too,” Nick said softly.

“Rather ridiculously so,” Jack agreed with a smile.

“That’s nice.” Nick said, his tone matter-of-fact.

“What is?”

“You, being in love. It’s nice. You gonna marry her?”

“She’s not the marrying kind, I don’t think,” Jack said. “But I’ll stay with her for as long as she’ll let me.”

“She’s a modern woman, she is,” Simon put in. “He’s been mooning over her for ages. Are you two officially an item then, Jack?”

“We’re something,” Jack said. “We haven’t—”

“We’re definitely an item,” Phryne’s voice was light as she came through the door. She lowered her voice. “Ganan is right behind me. We’ve told the townsfolk that we’re married.” She aimed this last comment at Nick and Simon, who darted looks at Jack. Jack smiled slightly, and tilted his head at his friends in a gesture that meant he’d explain later.

“Ganan, thank you so much,” he said, standing as the boy came through the door.

Ganan’s eyes went directly to Simon, then to the man he knew as Ned. “Everything all right?”

“Absolutely,” Simon said, his teeth bright against his swarthy skin. “I hit it off with Ned, here, and plumb forgot that Jack was arriving any day—I’m so sorry to have abandoned you, mate.” He turned his eyes to Jack.

“I’m just glad it wasn’t something more sinister,” Jack shrugged. “In my line of work, you always tend to jump to the worst possible scenario.”

“Can I make everyone some lunch?” Nick stood up, heading back to the stove. “I have plenty of eggs, and the bread is fresh.”

There was a chorus of yeses as Ganan and Phryne sat down at the table. Jack looked around and, spotting a three-legged stool beside the fireplace, brought it over next to Phryne. Simon stood to gather up a variety of plates and bowls and set them on the table.

“Never had so many over to dinner,” Nick said a little shyly when they realized he only had three plates. “Mostly I have more than one so that I don’t have to wash as often. Begging your pardon, Missus.”

“Don’t beg my pardon, Ned,” Phryne replied. “I hate to do the wash too.” Her warm smile was charming, calling a small return one from their host.

Nick laid slices of home-baked bread onto a pan that he slid into the oven, then he cracked and scrambled eggs in a large bowl before pouring them into the cast-iron skillet that was sizzling with a dollop of grease. When the eggs were fluffy, he placed the pan on the table and served out the toast. Digging in the pantry, he let out a soft “aha!” as he came up with a jar of marmalade, which he set out.

“Company deserves the good stuff.” Nick smiled a little as he said it, and Jack’s heart squeezed as he saw a shadow of the man he’d known during the war. Nick had been a joker then, keeping everyone’s spirits up with his smart remarks. Jack hoped that this Nick—or Ned, he supposed—would have at least some of that joy. They all deserved it, after the war.

When they’d all eaten—Ganan and Jack polished off the last servings after everyone else was full, sharing conspiratorial smiles as they portioned it out—Ned spoke.

“Ganan, if you want to head back to town today, Simon and I can take these two back tomorrow.”

Ganan studied him carefully as he chewed, then turned to Simon. “That all right with you?”

“Definitely,” Simon replied, his smile easy. “I want Jack and Phryne to get to know Ned a little, but we’ll be back tomorrow. Guaranteed.”

“I’ll need to get back to work eventually,” Jack put in quietly. “I’ve just about used up my whole leave.” He shot a sarcastic look at Simon.

“At least you had a chance to relax,” Phryne said, laying her hand over Jack’s arm. “You needed the break.”

“That’s true. And Hermannsburg is a nice town,” Jack conceded.

“With fantastic art—I can’t believe you hadn’t sought out Ganan’s grandmother before I arrived, Jack! What were you going to bring back for me when you came home?” Phryne’s smile was wicked, and Jack tilted his head at her and narrowed his eyes, not bothering to come up with a response.

Ganan grinned at Phryne’s flirtatious tone, his worry obviously allayed. With a nod, he rose and gathered up his pack. Jack walked him to the door, passing him the fee they’d promised for his guidance.

“Thank you for bringing us here, Ganan,” he said quietly. “I’m relieved. I hope you’ll spread the word that Simon’s fine. Though I might have been the only one who was worried.” His smile was small, and Ganan returned it.

“I will, inspector. I know that my grandmother will be pleased to know Simon is found.” He grinned. “Be sure to bring your wife by again—grandmother enjoyed selling her things.”

Jack laughed. “I doubt I’ll be able to keep her away, honestly—she’ll be hosting your grandmother at a gallery exhibition in Melbourne next.”

“Grandmother has always wanted to travel,” Ganan said, his tone dry, as he stepped out the door and adjusted his pack.

“Travel safely, Ganan,” Jack said, and with a nod, the boy turned to begin the walk back to town.

Sighing, Jack closed the door behind him and turned back to the three people at the table.

“So. What’s the story, then?” He said, crossing over to sit beside Phryne again.

Nick jumped up. “I’ll make some coffee, shall I?”

“If you must,” Jack said. “But can you talk while you work? I’m feeling a little impatient.”

Simon stood. “I’ve heard the story. Why don’t I make the coffee?” He clapped Nick on the shoulder, and the taller man looked at him, his eyes eloquent.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” he said quietly. “I— I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“No apology necessary,” Simon replied. “You’re in a hard place.”

Nick nodded and sat back down at the table, leaning forward on his elbows. He laced his fingers together, and Jack could see his hands flexing as he squeezed and released each one in turn.

“What happened, mate?” Jack said, his voice quiet. “Why did you leave us?”

Nick laughed, a short, bitter sound with no humor in it at all. “I wish I knew, Jack. I wish I knew.” He looked up at Jack, and his eyes were anguished. “I remember leaving camp that last night, and I remember meeting Rodg—he was a good fifty feet away from the camp, and I remember thinking _I can do better_.”

Jack nodded. That matched what Rodger had told them about the handoff that evening.

“I remember getting closer,” Nick went on. “And overhearing a conversation between two of the soldiers on watch—there was no way they’d notice anything, they were talking too much. They said something about _Spitzel_ and _töten_ , and they turned, as if watching someone approach, and then… there’s nothing.”

“They were talking about killing a spy?” Jack leaned forward as well, his eyes on Nick. “Had they captured someone?”

“I don’t know!” Nick tunnelled his hands into his hair. “I don’t _remember_ , Jack! The next thing I remember is waking up in a barn in Guise, dressed in laborers’ clothing. When I went outside, the man whose barn it was called me ‘Michel’ and spoke as if we were old friends.”

“Guise? But that’s…” Jack looked helplessly up at Simon.

“About forty-five kilometers south of where we were,” he supplied quietly, his dark eyes sad. Jack believed him—Simon had been their mapmaker, and he had a brilliant mind for topography.

“It gets worse.” Nick’s voice was anguished. “It was summer, Jack. The end of June, and I had no memory of the four months between that night in Cambrai and the morning I woke in Guise. Nothing.”

Jack sat back in his chair, stunned. How was that possible? He glanced at Phryne, who was gazing at Nick, her eyes sad but understanding.

“That happened to other soldiers too, Ned,” she said softly. “For whatever reason, their minds would blank out for weeks or months at a time. They’d have fought or marched or whatever their platoons did, and they’d have no memory of it at all.”

“They didn’t run, though, did they?” Nick’s voice was bitter.

“Some probably did,” Phryne replied gently. “I can only tell you about the ones I saw.”

He looked at her, his brows coming together. “The ones you saw? _You_ were in the war?”

Phryne nodded. “Ambulance corps, and I served as a nurse as well.”

“You’d believe it if you saw her driving,” Jack put in, his tone dry.

Phryne turned a laughing look on him. “I am an excellent driver, Jack,” she retorted with a small smile. She turned back to Nick.

“Everyone deals with trauma in their own way, Ned.” She reached out a hand to touch his arm, then pulled back when he stiffened. “You could not have stopped that fugue, any more than you could change the color of your eyes.”

Nick held her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “That may be, but once I came out of it, I decided not to go back.” He looked back at Jack, his lips a tight line—Jack could see that he’d been over this in his own head more than once.

“I remembered what happened to Bernie, how the brass and the doctors hounded him for answers and how it all got to be too much. I knew if I went back, there was a good chance I’d be shot for desertion. So I just… stayed. I was Michel for another six months, until I heard that the last of the overseas troops had been sent home, and then I took a job on a merchantman to get me back to Australia.”

His eyes welled with tears, and he raised a trembling hand to cover his mouth. “I’m so sorry that I left you all, Jack. I never wanted to. You were my family, and I let you down.”

“Nick— _Ned_ , mate, no.” Jack shook his head, his eyes darting up to Simon again, who stood with his back against the counter; Simon stepped forward and put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “It’s like we always said, you can only work with what you’ve got. You were dealt a bad hand, that’s all.”

Nick let out a gasping sob, burying his face in his hands. Jack rose to stand beside Simon, placing a hand on Nick’s other shoulder as the man cried. Phryne stood, catching Jack’s eye, and moved to the door, picking up her hat and sunglasses and pulling a book off of a shelf beside the door. Jack felt a rush of love for her as she turned back to look at him again, her eyes sad, and blew him a kiss.

*****

Phryne closed the door quietly behind her, stepping out into the warmth of the afternoon sun. She slid on her sunglasses and settled her khaki hat on her head, looking around. _Now what?_ She was certain that Nick would prefer not to have her there as he broke down, but it wasn’t as if there’d been anywhere inside to discreetly withdraw to, given the cabin’s single room. She drifted toward the henhouse, watching the birds scratch and peck in the dirt. One fat brown one gave her a beady-eyed once-over before apparently deciding she wasn’t worth the attention.

She glanced down at the book in her hand—she hadn’t really looked at it; she’d only been thinking that she might need to absent herself for a while, and a book would be a good distraction. With a small snort, she read the title: _A Princess of Mars,_ by Edgar Rice Burroughs. This sounded more like something Jack would read than something she’d choose, but needs must. Shaking her head, she moved to the side of the coop, settling herself on a stump that appeared to serve as the base for chopping wood. _There’s even a little shade to be had,_ she thought with a shrug. It’d do.

An hour later, when Jack came to look for her, she was deep into the book, caught up in the adventures of John Carter and Dejah Thoris, the titular princess. When Jack laid his hand on her shoulder, she jumped a little, not having heard him approach.

“Jack! You startled me,” she said with a smile up at her lover. He was rather deliciously handsome, even in the ancient floppy hat that Mrs. Manning had given him.

“It’s safe to come back inside now, if you like,” he said quietly. He smiled a little, but his eyes were haunted. Phryne stood, resting her hands on his chest.

“Are you all right?” She kept her voice quiet.

Jack shrugged, raising his hands to gently rub her upper arms. “I will be, I think. Nick’s really broken up. I don’t think he deserted intentionally, not that the brass will make that distinction.” His tone was harshly sarcastic, more so than she could ever remember hearing from him before.

“So what will you do? You and Simon and Rodger?” She slid her hands up to link them around his neck, pressing herself to him. She wanted him to know that she was there for him, whatever he decided. He returned the embrace, sliding his arms around her waist and lowering his forehead to hers. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.

“We’ll support him,” he said softly. “Lie for him if we have to.”

“Jack…” Phryne’s voice was a whisper.

“As far as Simon and I are concerned—and I think that Rodg will support us—Nick Johnstone died in 1918. We met this new fellow, Ned Johnson, who bears an uncanny resemblance to our dearly departed friend. It’s a startling coincidence.” His voice was tired, as if he was weighted down by this new truth.

“It’s the right thing to do, Jack.” Phryne kept her eyes open, searching his face for any doubt or guilt.

“It is,” he agreed. “I just wish he hadn’t had to be alone all this time.”

“Well, he’s not alone anymore,” her voice was matter-of-fact. “He has you, and Simon. And likely Rodger, if he’s the kind of man you think he is. You’ve given Ned a gift today.”

Jack drew in a deep breath at that, and kissed her, hard. When he lifted his head, he looked at her, his face serious.

“You are a gift, Phryne Fisher.”

Phryne could feel her cheeks flushing—amazing, since she hadn’t blushed for years—and she smiled at him, pleased.

“Or a great deal of trouble,” she said tartly. “Take your pick.”

“I pick you, with all of the trouble you bring,” he said, that tiny smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

“You like my kind of trouble,” she said, reaching up to kiss him again, this time softly, her tongue slipping between his lips to taste him.

“God help me, I do,” he agreed when they broke apart, and she grinned.

Stepping back, she raised the book, her finger in the spot where she’d left off. “Have you read these books, Jack?”

He angled his head to see the cover. “John Carter of Mars? I have—I think I own copies of all of them.” He smiled at her. “What did you think?”

“They’re quite an exciting read,” she said, looping her arm through his as they headed back to the house. “Fighting and derring-do, romance and adventure—I may have to borrow the rest!”

“Dejah Thoris has nothing on you, Miss Fisher,” Jack said wryly, and she laughed as he pushed through the door of the house to rejoin his friends.


	11. Chapter 11

**Day thirteen**

Phryne woke to the sound of voices. She’d gone to sleep well before the men had the night before. When they’d caught her yawning, Nick had insisted that she take his bed, as the only woman in the group.

“The sheets are clean, Miss Fisher,” he’d said shyly. “And I doubt any of us will sleep much anyway. Lots to catch up on.”

“Thank you, Ned,” she’d responded softly.

She’d pulled out a long-sleeved nightgown from her pack, and Jack had held a blanket up around one corner of the room while she changed. He watched her over the top of the blanket, his eyes smiling.

“I’ll be lonely without you in that bed tonight, Jack,” she said softly, looking up at him as she unbuttoned her shirt.

“I’ll be keeping myself company, imagining this scene slightly differently,” he murmured.

With a grin, she unhooked her bra, cupping her breasts and pinching her nipples as she met his gaze. He groaned softly and tilted his head at her, giving her a narrow-eyed blink.

“Now that’s just mean,” he said.

Laughing, she pulled the flannel nightgown over her head and stepped out of her trousers underneath it, letting it fall to the floor. Glancing down at herself, she grimaced.

“Well, this is becoming,” she said wryly. The fabric was white, with blue piping, and it felt soft and warm from many washings—this was one of the pieces of used clothing that Alinga Jaminjung had found for her—but the garment was very large on Phryne’s fine-boned body, obscuring her figure entirely.

Jack grinned. “It’s definitely more practical than your silk and lace—or nothing at all.” His voice dropped to a growl on the last words. “If we were alone, I’d enjoy finding you in all of that. Maybe you’d better bring it home with us, so that we can experiment later.”

“Why Jack,” she murmured, gathering up her clothing and stepping close as he brought the blanket down to refold it, “did you just share a sexual fantasy with me?”

“One of many, I assure you, Miss Fisher,” he said, dropping a light kiss on her lips.

“I’ll look forward to the others, then,” she said with a smile.

This morning, she stretched, her eyes still closed. She’d dozed while the men talked quietly at the table, trying to give them at least an illusion of privacy, but when they’d finally decided to sleep, Jack had laid down his bedroll beside her. She’d reached down to stroke his hair, and he’d taken her hand and kissed the back of it. They’d fallen asleep together, their hands linked. It was a feeling that she wanted to replicate as often as possible.

Opening her eyes, she saw that Jack was cooking—more eggs and toast, most likely. That seemed to be a staple of Nick’s diet out here, though he said that he purchased other things when he was in town. _Well, he hadn’t exactly been prepared for this much company._ Nick and Simon were sitting at the table, and the three of them seemed to be planning their return into town.

“I can guide you back,” Nick said. “I’ll need to pick up some more supplies, anyway.”

“Will Devereaux will be glad of the extra order—you’ll be back in a week for your next scheduled supply run, right?” Simon looked over at Nick, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t see why not. I may actually need to add to it, if I’m going to have company more often.” His smile was small, but it was a smile. Simon’s smile flashed in return.

“When we get to town, Simon and I can tell the story that you’re not who we thought you were,” Jack put in from the stove. “I showed our team photo around town when I was looking for you, but I never told any of them who I thought you were.”

Nick nodded. “That would make things easier.”

“It makes a good story,” Simon said. “I followed Ned home, thinking that he was an old army buddy. Turned out he wasn’t—just had a remarkable resemblance—but we hit it off anyway. I don’t have a lot of friends in this area.”

“I think you’d be surprised about that.” Jack’s voice was dry. “Every person I talked to in town—well, almost every person—stonewalled me completely when I asked about you.”

“Well, you _are_ the police, Jack,” Phryne said, sitting up and throwing off the covers. “People are often unwilling to talk to the authorities when they’re worried about someone they know.”

Jack turned to smile at her. “Good morning, Miss Fisher,” he said quietly. “And you’re right.” He turned back to his friends. “Phryne’s less official presence seemed to loosen some tongues. She practically had Will Devereaux salivating to help her.” Nick and Simon hid their smiles behind bites of their breakfast.

“Oh really, Jack, you’re exaggerating.” Jack laughed out loud at that, and she sent him a narrow-eyed glance as she fought back a smile. “He just needed a little encouragement. And really it was my genuine appreciation of Aboriginal traditional art that cinched the deal.” She walked over to sit at the table across from Nick, who was facing the stove.

“That is very true. She loved the art displayed at the Lutheran Mission.”

“Ah, that must be how you met Alinga, then,” Simon said.

“Yes, and Mr. Devereaux was kind enough to tell us how to find her.” Phryne’s tone was prim, but her eyes laughed up at Jack as he set a plate of eggs and toast in front of her, dropping a kiss on her forehead. She winked at Jack as he went back to the stove to make his own plate.

“For what it’s worth,” Phryne said, lifting her toast and meeting Nick’s eyes. “I’ll be happy to give the same story, if I’m asked.”

“Thank you,” Nick said quietly.

“Jack hasn’t told me much about the war, but I have no doubt that he was lucky to have the two of you—and your friend Rodger—by his side.” Her voice was soft. “No one came away from that war without wounds. Some heal faster than others, and all we can do is support each other when the pain flares up.”

Nick and Simon both nodded gravely, and Jack stroked a hand over her hair as he came to sit in the fourth chair with his breakfast plate.

“So,” Simon said, pushing his plate away. “When shall we head back to town?”

*****

As the group of them hiked back to town, Nick’s mule walking placidly at the end of his tether with their packs piled across its back, Jack took Phryne’s hand. He had been staying beside her as they trekked through the bushland, sometimes linking his fingers through hers, other times a step apart, but always close. Phryne looked up at him with a smile, sliding her fingers between his.

Jack found himself thinking about what would happen next with the beautiful woman walking beside him. She was a free spirit, and he never wanted to change that about her, but he didn’t know how he’d feel if she decided to take a lover other than himself. He knew that for Phryne, sex didn’t necessarily go hand in hand with love, but knowing that didn’t make her sleeping with another man an easier thought to contemplate. Could he handle it, though, if that was what she needed to be happy? Always assuming that she wanted him to be around to come back to, that is—if she decided that she was finished with him and wanted someone else, that would be a whole world of pain that didn’t bear thinking about at this moment.

He supposed that if the choice was being with Phryne and leaving the possibility open for her to take other lovers versus not being with Phryne at all, he’d rather take the former. Either it wouldn’t happen, and he’d never have to deal with it, or it would and he’d learn whether his love for her was as strong as he thought it was.

“You know, Jack, I’ve been thinking,” she said quietly, breaking into his admittedly somber thoughts. Nick and Simon were ahead of them, the mule’s lead in Nick’s hand.

“Oh? About what?” Jack looked down at her, noting that the tip of her nose had begun to turn slightly pink in the sun. He reached over to adjust the tilt of her floppy hat, touching her nose lightly when he was done.

“When we get back to Melbourne, how do you see us proceeding?” Her voice was soft and serious.

“You mean in regards to our personal relationship?” Jack knew the words sounded stiff, but given that her thoughts had obviously been traveling in similar channels to his, he supposed he had reason.

“That, yes, and our professional one.”

He shot her a surprised glance. “I hadn’t thought that our professional relationship would change much at all—do you think it would?”

“Well, there will undoubtedly be more teasing, and perhaps a more… _familiar_ tone,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes.

“Ah, undoubtedly.” His tone was wry. “But we’ll still work together, as far as I’m concerned. Unless you’d rather not?” He glanced at her, watching her eyebrows shoot up.

“Of course I want to continue working together! What I was really wondering…” She disengaged her fingers from his and slid her hand up his arm to wrap around his bicep, pulling close as they walked.

“What is it, Phryne?” He kept his voice soft. He had never seen her act uncertain this way.

“Do we have to hide? That we’re together, I mean?” She looked up at him, and he could see the worry in her eyes. “I don’t care for me—my reputation is what it is—but I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble for being with me.”

Jack felt his own eyebrows rise and his jaw drop. He’d had no idea she was concerned about that.

“It’s true that my chances of advancement in the police force are dependent on my personal reputation staying impeccable. That said, I’m already a divorced man—that’s one knock against me—and I managed to arrest the Chief Commissioner, who was also my ex-father-in-law, on charges of corruption. Along with my ex-wife’s fiance.” He glanced at her again, smiling slightly. “I think my personal reputation is already a lost cause, but even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t let that stop me. I don’t want to have to hide us. Do you?”

She pulled him to a stop, and raised up on her tiptoes to kiss him, her head angling for the best approach, her tongue slipping between his lips to tangle with his.

“Never, Jack,” she said when she pulled away.

“Good.” He kissed her again, quickly, before beginning to walk again. “My professional reputation will have to stand for me, I think. Even as things stand today, I may never rise higher than I am now—does that matter to you?”

“Why would it matter to me, Jack? Unless it matters to you?”

He shook his head, his eyes on Simon and Nick. “I’m happy where I am now—I like being a part of the investigations. If I moved up, I’d have to do more paperwork and less legwork.” He looked down at her. “What about in your circles, Phryne? Do you want to keep your association with a lowly civil servant under wraps? Your aunt, for one, isn’t likely to be pleased.”

“Oh, pish posh. Aunt Prudence thinks the world of you. As do I. And anyone who would disdain me because of your work isn’t someone I wish to know, anyway.” She looked up at him. “I don’t want to hide you either.”

Jack smiled, pleased.

“Although…” she smiled at him. “That does mean that you’ll have to accompany me to at least some social engagements. Do you think you can manage that?”

Jack affected a martyred look. “I suppose…” he sighed, and Phryne poked him in the ribs, laughing. “At least I’ll be entering and leaving with the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“That’s the way to find the bright side, Jack.”

They walked a little more, Phryne’s hand on his arm sliding down to take his hand again. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat.

“Phryne, I need to ask you something.”

She looked at him, her eyes open and inviting. _God, she’s beautiful._

“In our personal relationship…” he trailed off, not sure how to ask what he wanted to know.

“Jack?”

He cleared his throat. “You know that I try to be a liberal man, Phryne. I don’t want to change you, but I’m not sure how I will feel if…” He broke off again. “Will you want… need… damn it.” He muttered the last, hating his uncooperating voice.

“Will I take other men to my bed, Jack? Is that what you’re asking?” Phryne’s voice was quiet.

Jack nodded, swallowing. She gazed up at him, her eyes calm.

“Would it hurt you if I did, Jack?”

He grimaced, meeting her eyes. “I don’t know. But I know that I want to be with you, for as long as you’ll have me. And if that is something you need, well, I’ll do my best to understand.”

“I can’t promise that I’ll never feel the urge to take another man to bed,” she said softly, “but I can promise that I won’t do anything of the sort without your knowledge. And if it is too much, can you promise to tell me so?”

Jack nodded. “I can promise that.”

“Good. I don’t want to hurt you, Jack. And I want to be with you for as long as we’re happy together, in case that hasn’t been clear.” She looked up at him, a smile on her lips. “You’re my friend in addition to my lover, Jack Robinson, and that’s a rare thing for me.”

Jack couldn’t help himself. He stopped walking and kissed her, his mouth urgent on hers. Phryne responded in kind, her arms going around him to grasp at his back, her fingers digging into the muscles on either side of his spine. They stood, wrapped around each other, for long moments, unaware of the world around them until Simon’s voice cut through their mutual haze.

“Oi! You two! We’ve got traveling to do today! Think you’re going to join us?”

Nick, beside Simon, was laughing silently, his shoulders shaking. Jack made a rude gesture at his friends; looking down at Phryne, he smiled.

“Shall we, Miss Fisher?”

Her return smile was brilliant. “We shall, inspector.”

Together, Jack’s arm around Phryne’s shoulders and her arm around his waist, they began to walk again.

*****

When they came into town, the foursome stopped first at Mrs. Manning’s to leave off their packs. She was thrilled to see Simon, and Phryne grinned at the way she treated him like a prodigal son.

“The inspector was worried about you, but I knew you were just out exploring,” she said, taking his face between her hands.

He grinned at her. “You know me well, Mrs. M.”

She let him go with a soft pat on one cheek, and he straightened, looking over at Nick.

“Mrs. M, this is my new friend Ned Johnson,” he said quietly, gesturing to Nick.

“Oh I know Ned!” Her blue eyes twinkled up at Nick. “He bought one of my pies at the last church fundraiser.”

“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Manning.” Nick’s smile was shy.

“You should join us for dinner, Ned,” she said, patting his arm.

His pleased surprise at the invitation was evident, even as he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I’m just in town to pick up some supplies. I need to start back soon or I’ll be walking in the dark.”

“Well, next time you’re in town, then,” she said comfortably. “You need to see people sometimes. It’s not good for a man to be alone too much.”

“You’re the best, Mrs. M,” Simon said, clapping a hand on Ned’s shoulder. “He’ll be back this time next week—if we have him here for lunch, he can still get back to his chooks with plenty of light.”

“I’d like that very much,” Nick said quietly.

“Then consider it an invitation,” Mrs. Manning said, reaching out to pat Nick’s arm. “I’ll expect you.”

“We should go check in at the police station,” Jack broke in quietly. “I don’t think he took me seriously when I went asking about you, but just in case he actually filed a report, we should let him know you’re found.”

“Fair enough,” Simon said. “We’ll be back in a little while, Mrs. M.”

She waved them off with a smile, and the four of them, Nick’s mule now unladen, headed for the general store. Outside it, they stopped and looked at each other.

“I’m glad to see you again,” Jack said, holding out a hand to Nick. Phryne thought that he would have liked to hug the man, but given the fiction that they’d only just met, that would seem odd. “You’ve been missed, my friend.”

Nick’s lips pressed together tightly and his eyes glistened. “I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you earlier—either of you.” He looked between Simon and Jack.

“Water under the bridge, mate,” Simon said, smiling at Nick. Glancing around, he lowered his voice. “Now you know it’ll take more than faking your own death to get rid of us.”

Nick laughed out loud at that, and Phryne was amazed at the change the laughter brought to his face. He didn’t look so worn down with the sparkle of humor in his eyes. She stepped close and lifted to her toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It was lovely to meet you, Ned,” she said softly, her hand on his arm. “Don’t be a stranger, all right? And if you ever find yourself in Melbourne, we want to see you.”

Ned nodded, his jaw working. He looked up at Jack, and some message seemed to pass between the two men before Ned nodded sharply, clapped Simon on the shoulder, and turned to walk into the general store.

*****

Sergeant Burton, when they found him at the station, regarded Jack smugly; Jack could tell that he was thrilled to have “bested” the big-city inspector. Thankfully, Jack didn’t much care what the man thought of him—though it turned out that Phryne did.

“Thank you so much for all of the help you offered my husband, sergeant,” she said, her eyes innocent and her tone fervent. “I know that he was beside himself with worry about his friend, and knowing that he had the brotherhood of the police force to fall back on—well, I can’t tell you how it eased his mind.”

“Well, I really—” Burton started, his smug smile fading.

She laid a hand over one of his where it rested on his desk. “I am certain that if you’re ever in Melbourne, Jack will be just as happy to assist you in any investigations you might have.” She shook her head, as if in awe. “It takes a very strong man to go beyond his own interpretation of the evidence and consider another person’s point of view. This town is lucky to have a man like you in charge.”

It was all Jack could do not to laugh at the slightly ill expression on the sergeant’s face when they left the station. As they walked away, Simon regarded her with laughing eyes.

“Remind me never to make you angry,” he said quietly.

“Usually, I prefer physical violence, Simon,” she replied in a conversational tone as she wrapped a hand around Jack’s arm, “but sometimes, the right words can be even more damaging. I hope that little rotter thinks twice the next time he’s tempted to dismiss someone’s concerns.”

“You are a lucky man, Jack.” Simon’s words were admiring, as was the smile he aimed at Phryne.

“I know it,” Jack could feel the lump in his throat at the thought. “I’m very lucky indeed.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Day fourteen**

Jack woke Phryne with kisses the next morning. He knew that she needed her rest, with the day’s flight ahead of them, but he couldn’t resist. After this morning, it was back to reality for them—back to separate residences and separate, if intersecting, lives. It still worried him, how the two of them would manage once they were back in Melbourne. He knew they’d both decided to work to be together, but it seemed like it would be harder once they were back in the real world.

Phryne moaned as he slithered down her body under the covers, wanting to start the day with her scent and her taste all around him. They’d made love the night before and had gone to sleep naked in each other’s arms; he was grateful for it as he hitched one of her legs over his shoulder and covered her sex with his mouth.

 _I doubt I’ll ever tire of the taste of her_. He closed his eyes, concentrating on it as he felt her come awake around him. He burrowed his tongue into her folds, opening her up, then slid a hand up to hold her open with two fingers while he licked and sucked at her inner lips and her clit. As his tongue wet her, he could feel the answering wetness of her arousal and hear her gasps of pleasure. She said his name, soft but urgent, as her hips shifted, trying to reposition herself so that he touched her most sensitive places.

He could feel his cock, hard and hot, pressing between his belly and the sheet; he shifted his hips, not wanting to get too far ahead of her, and redoubled his efforts. Tracing her opening with one fingertip, he dipped inside just a little as he fluttered his tongue over her clit. The hand he’d wrapped around her thigh to rest on her belly, the tips of his fingers brushing the bottom edge of her breast, registered the arching of her back, and he pulled back slightly to blow over her heated flesh before repeating the dual caresses.

One fingertip inside her body became two fingers, pushing in to the last knuckle as he busied himself tonguing her clit. When she seemed to be unable to hold her hips still, her hands gripping his head and his name a low chant, he dragged his fingers along her passage as he withdrew while at the same time latching on to her clit to alternate suction and a low, wordless hum. Her orgasm broke quietly when it came; she called his name in a high, breathless moan that wouldn’t carry farther than the bed, but that ran through Jack like lightning.

She gripped his hair in both hands, pulling him up her body to her mouth; when he kissed her, she stroked down his body again to grasp his cock, hard and hot at her hip. Jack moaned against her mouth as she positioned him at the entrance to her body. Pressing his hips, he entered her slowly, reaching down to slide one hand under her thigh, holding her as he began to move.

His mouth open against hers, Jack pumped into her, his back bowing and his breath gusting. He was aroused enough from making her come that it didn’t take long before he could feel his orgasm building. Stroking a hand down her side, he cupped her breast, pinching her nipple between thumb and forefinger as he added a grinding movement to the apex of each of his thrusts, pushing his pelvis against her clit. He could feel himself beginning to tremble, and apparently so could she. She turned her head to press her cheek to his, her mouth at his ear.

“Go over, Jack,” she whispered, and then she took his earlobe lightly between her teeth, sucking it into her mouth.

With a shout that he muffled against her shoulder, Jack’s orgasm took him; his hips stuttered against her and she stroked his hair and his shoulders, her legs clasping him around the waist. After a few moments, he lifted his head and propped himself up on his elbows. Phryne’s fingers trailed through his hair to stroke the line of his jaw. Her eyes on his were tender.

“Back to civilization today,” she murmured.

“Indeed,” he replied softly, tucking her hair behind her ear as he studied her face. “Not regretting this, are you?”

“Not for a moment, Jack,” she said, a grin flashing across her face. “I was just trying to figure out whether we could call ahead and give Mr. Butler notice that we’ll be there for dinner.”

He smiled in return. “Is that an invitation, Miss Fisher?”

“An open one, inspector.” Her hands stroking through his hair paused. “I’m sure that he’ll be able to whip something up, regardless of whether we can tell him we’re coming or not. The man is a marvel.” She sighed lightly. “I’m rather looking forward to a hot bath in my own space.” She narrowed her eyes at him and smiled a wicked sort of smile. “My tub _is_ big enough for two, you know.”

“I had wondered,” he said, his own smile wry. “Will I come out of it smelling like a garden?”

“I’m certain that I can find something that will suit your masculine presence.”

Grinning, he kissed her again and pushed himself up and out of bed. “Better get a wriggle on, then, Miss Fisher. We’ve a long way to travel today.”

“ _O! For a horse with wings!_ ” She winked at him as she rose to wash and dress.

“My thoughts exactly, Miss Fisher.” His smile as he bundled up the last of his things and packed them into his satchel was tender. Of course she’d tease him with Shakespeare. She was perfect for him, after all.

*****

Simon accompanied them to the airfield, carrying Phryne’s paper-wrapped stack of boxes.

“What is in this?” He hefted the stack; it was heavier than it looked, she knew.

“Art! I bought small things for all of my friends and family from Alinga Jaminjung.” Phryne sent a smile over at Simon as they walked.

“And some large things for herself, which will be shipped to her home in Melbourne,” Jack interjected, his voice dry.

“Only because they wouldn’t fit on the plane.” Phryne’s reply was prim, but her eyes were laughing. She turned back to Simon. “Thank you for taking our extra clothing back to Alinga. I’m certain someone can use it.”

“I’m happy to,” he said. “And if this won’t fit in the plane after all, I’ll be happy to have it shipped for you as well.”

“Oh, speaking of shipping things…” Jack reached into an outside pocket of his satchel and withdrew a packet of papers. Holding most of them in the same hand as his bag, he held out what looked like a letter to Simon. “I wrote to Rodger—encoded, though likely not as well as yours—to let him know about Ned. Would you post that for me?”

“Absolutely,” Simon replied, taking the letter. “I plan to send my own report as well.”

“Good idea.” Jack’s voice was serious. “He’ll feel better for hearing from both of us. That’s addressed to his home—I think we should continue to keep this out of official channels.”

Simon nodded, but didn’t reply.

“And this is for you,” Jack said, passing over the rest of the papers, which looked to Phryne like a book with a sheaf of papers folded around it. “It’s your journal and my translation pages. I figured you might want to destroy the translation, or at least be sure you knew where it got to.”

Simon took them, opening the papers and flipping through them. “Damn, Jack, did you translate the whole thing?”

“Yes?” Jack tilted his head at his friend. “Why?”

Simon laughed, loud and long. “I thought you’d start at the end, you idiot!”

Jack sputtered, a tiny bit of pink tinging his cheekbones. “I— It was— Well, hell, Simon, I didn’t even think of that.” He laid his free hand on the back of his neck and looked sheepishly at his friend. “It would have saved time if I’d started at the end, wouldn’t it?”

“But then you’d have gone off and found him without me, Jack,” Phryne said, looping her arm through his and sending a smile at Simon.

“Probably worked out for the best, Jacko.” Simon winked at Phryne.

Jack looked down at Phryne and his smile was soft and happy. “Fair point,” he conceded.

*****

When they reached the plane, the men helped pack the luggage into the storage compartments. Surprisingly, it all fit, including the small lunch basket that Mr. Butler had provided on the way out, freshly stocked with sandwiches, biscuits, and tea by Mrs. Manning. As they’d left after breakfast that morning, she’d patted Jack on the cheek and drawn Phryne into a hug, telling them to come back soon. Jack and Phryne had exchanged a glance, understanding each other’s thoughts—they might just do that sometime, for a chance to visit with Simon and Nick and to be together, unfettered by societal expectations.

Luggage stowed, Phryne moved off to check the plane’s systems, and Simon drew Jack aside.

“You read the whole journal?” He began without preamble, his eyes keen on Jack’s face.

“Yes, to my embarrassment. I can’t believe I didn’t think to—”

Simon cut him off. “I don’t care that you read it, Jacko. But now you know. About me.”

Jack nodded, his eyes serious on Simon’s. “That you have Aboriginal blood? Yes. But I’d suspected for a long time. It doesn’t change anything.”

“You won’t tell Rodg?” Simon crossed his arms, looking uncertain. “I don’t care if he knows, but if he had to report it…”

“No. It’s not my secret to tell, though I’d guess he has his suspicions as well. Besides,” Jack laid a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “What matters is the kind of man you are, and you’re a damn good one.”

Simon’s teeth flashed white, and he hugged Jack hard. Jack hugged him back.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Simon said when they parted.

“Next time you’re in Melbourne…”

“I’ll try to bring Ned along.”

Jack grinned, pleased. He’d forgotten how much he liked Simon, and Nick—no, Ned, he needed to try to refer to him that way even in his thoughts—well, having _Ned_ back was a blessing. He had a sudden thought.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Would you do me a favor?”

“Of course, mate,” Simon looked steadily at him. “What do you need?”

Jack fished a coin out of his pocket. “Would you buy a bag of peppermint lollies from Will Devereaux and see that they get to Amelia Burton for me? Tell her she has to share them with Peter and Darel.”

“All right, but why?” Simon’s expression was confused but amused.

“They were instrumental in my investigation,” Jack said with a smirk.

Simon laughed out loud at that, and clapped Jack on the shoulder.

“Ready, Jack?” Phryne’s voice was calm as she approached them. “The plane looks good. We should be home before dinner.”

 _Home_. Jack thought, nodding at Phryne. They bid goodbye to Simon, who started the propeller and watched as they took off. Jack had confided in his friend that he was a bit nervous about the flight, but as it turned out, he needn’t have been.

Flying with Phryne was a revelation, as far as Jack was concerned. Everything that terrified him in her driving on the ground made so much more sense in the air. What, on the ground, felt like gratuitous swerving was, in the air, graceful swooping that allowed him to see the scenery while still propelling them through the sky. The speed that unnerved him on the ground felt natural in the air, unfettered by roads and buildings and… pedestrians. He grinned to himself, enjoying the view.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Jack?”

Phryne’s voice seemed tiny as it floated toward him from behind, and he turned to smile at her. He’d given up on wearing his hat, and he could feel the the wind ruffling through his hair. He was glad that he hadn’t bothered with pomade this morning.

“Fantastic, Miss Fisher!” He yelled back at her, craning his neck to watch the countryside go by. He saw a winding dirt track that was likely a road, and a troop of kangaroos making their way across the brown flatland.

He glanced back at her again, with her hat flaps protecting her ears from the bite of the wind—he wished he had one of those, but perhaps the next time they flew together—and her goggles that kept her eyes from tearing. Her smile was brilliant, and he felt a rush of love for this amazing, adventurous woman. Turning to face forward again, he settled in and began planning how he would seduce her when they reached Melbourne.

*****

Phryne guided them down midday near the town of Orroroo, roughly halfway back to Melbourne. They were making good time—she thought they’d likely finish the trip in less than nine hours rather than the nearly ten it had taken her to get to Hermannsburg. Jack must be good luck.

She managed to get them within walking distance of the town, which—as she’d learned on her way north—was surprisingly modern, fully electrified and with telephone lines strung. Bringing the plane to a halt at the far end of a grassy field, she turned off the engine and climbed out, not really surprised to find Jack standing below her seat to help her down.

It did surprise her, though, when instead of setting her on her feet, he pulled her into his arms for a passionate kiss. She threw her arms around his neck and returned his ardor, opening her mouth to admit his tongue. She was breathless when he released her.

“What was that for, inspector?”

“You are a marvel, Miss Fisher. That was for showing me that I love to fly.” His voice was rough and she leaned back in his arms and looked at him with admiration. So many men would abhor her penchant for adventure, but Jack not only enjoyed it, he encouraged it. It was part of why she wanted to be with him.

“If you’d like to learn how to do it yourself, I’d be happy to teach you sometime.”

“Teach me anything you like,” he rumbled, pulling her into a quick hug before letting her go.

They dined on Mrs. Manning’s thickly stacked chicken sandwiches and a thermos of tea that was still, remarkably, lukewarm, and then she showed him how to check the plane over before they struck out for town. It was an approximately twenty-minute walk, and they stopped first at the general store in town to find him a cap and a pair of sunglasses, as his eyes and face were reddened from the wind and sun. He carried them bunched in his other hand, his fedora sitting solidly on his head.

They asked at the general store about a telephone and were directed to the post office; Mr. Butler was thrilled that they were on their way.

“Any special requests for dinner, miss?”

“Well, Jack will be joining me, so something filling for a hungry man.” She shot Jack a smile over her shoulder and he shook his head, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Ah, of course. I’m certain that I can come up with something that will satisfy.” Mr. Butler’s tone was amused, and it pleased Phryne that he was showing his affection for Jack that way. “What time should I send Mr. Johnson and Mr. Yates to the airfield, do you think?”

“We’re at Orroroo now, and I’d guess we have another four or five hours to fly. The winds have been on our side today, though, so it could be on the shorter end of that.”

“Very good, miss. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Mr. B. It’s been a lovely trip, but I’m ready for home. We’ll see you soon.” She hung up, smiling.

“Mr. Butler likes you, Jack,” she said, moving toward him.

“Why do you say that?” His face creased in that tiny smile that thrilled her.

“As soon as he heard you were going to be there for dinner, I could hear the gears in his head whirring with plans.”

“I anticipate a fantastic meal, then,” he smirked.

“And then we can move to my boudoir for dessert.” Her look up at him was sultry.

“I am an avid supporter of dessert, Miss Fisher.” He raised a hand to run a finger along her cheekbone, and Phryne felt her stomach flutter.

“So I’m noticing, Jack.” She saw his nostrils flare at the stress she put on the hard consonant at the end of his name, and she touched her tongue to her upper lip, her hand lifting to fiddle with a button on his shirt.

He tilted his head at her, narrowing his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was a growl.

“We have four or five hours to fly and then the ride to your house and dinner to get through before I can ravish you properly. I think it’s time to go.”

Phryne nodded, her lips widening in a smirk. “Absolutely.” She slid her hand down his arm to lace her fingers into his. “Let’s go home.”

As they walked back to the plane, hands clasped and hips bumping companionably, Phryne shook her head and looked up at him.

“It’s hard to believe that it’s been less than a week since I got tired of waiting for you to come back to Melbourne, Jack.” Her voice was light, but she was telling the truth. It felt so very easy between them that it seemed like it must have been longer.

“There are times when your lack of patience is nothing less than perfect.” He lifted their joined hands to his mouth to drop a kiss on her fingers, a smile in his eyes. She loved how easily she could read his expressions. He was a constant challenge, her Jack.

“Why wait for something I want so very much?” They had rounded the corner from the road to where they’d left the plane, and she looked up at Jack with a smile as they neared the machine, an invitation in her eyes. “You know, Jack, we are _very_ much alone out here.”

“So we are.” He turned to her as they stepped up beside the plane, sliding one arm behind her waist to draw her close and the other into her hair to tilt her head as he closed his mouth over hers.

She slid her hands up his arms, pressing her body against his as their kiss grew heated. She could feel him hardening against her through his moleskin trousers, and she wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, her fingertips playing with the short, soft hairs there. His hand on her waist dropped to her bottom, urging her against him, and Phryne let out a soft whimper of desire.

At the sound, Jack broke away, his hand moving to her hip and his eyes warm on hers.

“Sometimes, the wait makes the eventual reward that much sweeter, Miss Fisher,” he rumbled, a smile on his lips. “I understand that Mr. Butler’s making dinner this evening—we wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Phryne stepped back, her eyes narrowed on him. “That was rather underhanded of you, Jack Robinson.” Her smile flashed. “I like it.” She turned to climb into the cockpit and laughed out loud as he helped her with both hands cupped under her bottom. “Jack!”

“I’m just trying to steady you,” he said, his grin open.

“Well, thank you, inspector. You’ve given me plenty to think about for the last leg of this flight.”

With a grin, she settled in and flicked the contact switch, calling “Contact!” to him where he’d gone to stand in front of the propeller. With a heave that she could feel down the plane, he set the propeller to spinning and ran around to climb into his own seat.

When she saw his thumbs-up, she released the brake and accellerated, the plane bumping across the field until she pulled back to lift off. She felt the takeoff as a swooping in her stomach—almost like the feeling she got when a handsome man smiled at her from across a room—and they were in the air. Only a few more hours, and then they’d see who’d be ravishing whom. He was right, too: The waiting would likely make it that much better.


	13. Epilogue

Jack opened his eyes on Sunday morning, feeling the sun on his face as he breathed in the morning breeze coming through the tall window beside Phryne’s bed. He could feel her, curled up against his back, her breath gusting along his spine as she continued to sleep. Content, he lay quietly for a moment, his eyes falling on the framed photograph that stood beside the bed. It was of Phryne, stretched out along a chaise, her breasts bared and one knee bent so that the petals of her sex were visible beneath the black curls that covered her mound. In the photo, her arm was outstretched, beckoning to the viewer to join her.

Jack’s mouth tilted in a smile. He set that photograph up on the bedside table every night that he stayed over, which was almost every night. And he put it away in the drawer every morning—he knew that it was unlikely that Mr. Butler or Mrs. Collins would be scandalized by it, but it was intended for him and only him, and he wanted to keep it that way. Stretching, he rolled toward Phryne, ignoring her mumbled protests as he moved in favor of her soft sigh as he gathered her against his chest.

In the months since they’d returned from Hermannsburg, he’d spent many nights in her bed—more than he’d spent in his own—and though it had become almost a given that he’d come to hers or she’d come to his, they still danced the “will I see you tonight” dance every day. Perhaps that would eventually become unnecessary, but for now he was keeping his house—and only partly as a way to keep up appearances. It served as a handy getaway for those nights when he and Phryne didn’t want the attention of a house full of staff. Those nights didn’t come often, but they came. And they even spent some nights separately, though not many, for which he was glad. He slept better with her in his arms.

He’d always loved Sunday mornings—before Phryne, he’d used his day off to putter around his garden or read a good book in bed. But he’d found that even more than those lazy Sundays alone, he loved Sunday mornings in bed with her. Some Saturday evenings, she’d go out dancing—he usually passed on that, as it was often difficult for him to turn a blind eye to the illegalities of some of the clubs she frequented—and then she’d come to snuggle in beside him, in his bed or hers, to either fall into an exhausted sleep or wake him to make love. She hadn’t yet taken another lover—he knew she would have told him if the urge arose, and as she hadn’t said anything about it, he trusted that she’d used him to scratch whatever itch she felt along those lines. He still didn’t know how he’d feel if the issue came up, but he thought they’d figure something out if it did. And until it became an issue, well, he’d enjoy what they had.

He buried his nose in her hair, breathing in the mixture of her perfume plus sweat and cigarette smoke and whiskey that meant she’d stayed out dancing the night before. Smoothing a hand down her back, he realized that she’d stripped to the skin before climbing into bed—she must have been either very tired or very drunk when she got home. He smiled a little indulgently as he stroked her; she arched against his hand like a cat, uncurling to press her body to his, one hand snaking up around his neck.

“My Jack,” she murmured, her eyes still closed, and he felt the same thrill at that phrase as he did every time she used it. He would happily remain hers for the rest of his days if she let him. After Rosie, he’d never considered that he’d find another woman who wanted to just _be_ with him. And for that woman to be Phryne Fisher… It was an embarrassment of riches.

Her skin was like silk under his fingertips, and he continued to pet her, stroking a palm down her side to her thigh, then back up. He pressed a kiss to her forehead as he brought his hand around to cup her breast, his thumb softly circling her nipple. She murmured again, something unintelligible this time, and raised one leg to hook it over his hip. He felt himself hardening as the wet heat between her legs pressed against his cock, warm enough to be felt even through the cotton of his pajama bottoms.

Pressing his mouth to her throat, he wondered whether she had her device in place and decided that it was better to assume she didn’t. Rolling slightly, he twisted to reach into the bedside table and extract a condom. He wasn’t quite ready to put it on yet, but he would be shortly, he knew. He marveled at his own sexual drive—when he’d been with Rosie, their sex life had been a healthy one, though after she’d moved out, he had gone without sex for close to three years. Now, with Phryne, it was the rare night that went by without some sort of sexual contact, and he found that he was more than willing to rise to that challenge.

She’d also made it clear that she welcomed his touch—to the point where he didn’t know how he’d ever worked side by side with her without touching her regularly, in ways that ranged from the innocent to the scandalous. He had never considered fucking a woman across his desk at the station until Phryne came along, and even then, it had been purely theoretical. At least until that one time, about a month after Hermannsburg, when she’d come by at the end of his shift to show him just how pleasurable breaking the rules could be.

If the scent and feel of her in his arms hadn’t already been enough to bring his cock to full hardness, the memory of that encounter would have done it. He felt himself harden in a rush, and he hastened to undo his pants and cover himself with the condom, tossing the packet over his shoulder and pulling her close again.

She moaned when, erection sliding against her, he bent his head to cover her nipple—hardened already from the stroking of his thumb. He began to suckle as he palmed her mons, his long fingers sliding between her folds to tease her.

“Jack?” Her voice was sleepy, and he smiled to hear it as he turned his head to her other breast and pressed two fingers inside her body, the slickness of her arousal making his entrance smooth. He heard her gasp and felt her hands at his chest and neck curl into claws against his skin.

“Oh god, Jack,” she breathed, and he lifted his head to meet her eyes, his fingers sliding slowly in and out of her body as his thumb pressed against her clit. “What a way to wake up.” Her eyes opened about halfway and she let her head fall backward, an invitation for Jack to press his lips to her neck that he gladly accepted, running his open mouth over her fragile skin. She gasped softly, her hips rocking against him.

He drew her close, covering her mouth with his as he pulled his fingers out and cupped his hand around her thigh, snugging her hips up against his. Her hand on his neck grasped his hair as he pushed inside her with both his tongue and his cock, both appendages sliding slowly, slickly in tandem. The hand Phryne had on his chest moved to his back to hold him close, pressing her breasts against his chest.

Jack felt as if he was wallowing in her, feeling her nipples pressing into his skin, her knee hooked over his hip, her hips shifting against his. The low, sleepy sounds she made into his mouth were the most erotic music he’d ever heard, and the pinch of her nails in the skin of his back became a percussive counterpoint. He began to swivel and push his hips against her, moving inside her in the smallest of motions, feeling each wet movement against his entire length, his scrotum warm against her skin.

*****

Phryne felt as if she was in a dream, her body warm and loose with sleep, thrumming with the arousal that Jack built within her so effortlessly. She moaned against his mouth, her leg over his shifting higher to open herself more fully. Rolling backward, she pulled him atop her; he followed easily, his rhythm barely faltering.

Her hands stroked down his back, her fingernails trailing down the smooth muscles to either side of his spine without biting in, exactly, but making their presence known. He groaned and arched against her, his thrusts becoming more urgent, and his mouth moved away from hers to glide down her neck again. He slid his forearms under her shoulders, his big hands cradling her head; when her hands reached his buttocks and gripped, pressing into the heavy muscles there, he made a low sound that reverberated across her chest and his movements sped up even more.

She smiled at the sound, arching her neck and gripping him harder, loving the feel of him moving within her, the scents of their bodies rising in the room, the sounds of his flesh slapping and sliding along hers. The pure sensory overload that really good sex brought with it was something that she never tired of. The whole world went away when she connected with her body and that of her lover. And with Jack, there was another, deeper connection that seemed to feed a part of her that she hadn’t realized was hungry—a place in her heart that had slowly begun to fill while they were friends, and then flooded when they became lovers. She couldn’t get enough of it.

“Jack, _yes_!” she cried as he changed his angle within her. She lifted both legs now to wrap them around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs as he pounded at her. With a groan, she pulled one hand up to lace her fingers into his hair; she lifted his head so that she could kiss him, their mouths open in gasping breaths.

Jack fisted one hand in her hair in return, his mouth avid on hers; the other hand he slide down to press between their bodies, his fingers slippery on her clit as he added a circling pressure to her sensitive nub.

“Jack!” His name was a wail as Phryne came, her body shuddering.

“Ffffff— Phryne,” he groaned into her mouth as she felt his orgasm hit. She felt the warmth of his release and the clenching of his muscles as his hips stuttered against her, his cock pressing deep inside her body as if he couldn’t get close enough.

Their open-mouthed kisses turned tender as their bodies settled; after a few moments, Jack slid off the bed, heading to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. Phryne tried to stay awake until he returned, thinking that she’d pull him back into bed, but her late night caught up with her. She vaguely registered him pulling the blankets up over her and pressing a kiss to her forehead before she dropped off again into an exhausted sleep.

*****

Three hours later, Jack was sitting at the kitchen table chatting to Mr. Butler over a cup of steaming coffee and a fresh scone when Phryne appeared in the doorway. She wore no makeup and her hair was still slightly mussed from sleep; she’d wrapped herself in a gorgeous plum-satin robe embroidered with cherry blossoms. Jack had a sudden, visceral memory of pushing himself into her body, his hands in her hair; he took a deep breath and lifted his coffee to obscure his expression. He was a very lucky man.

“Good morning, miss,” Mr. Butler said, his voice warm and his smile warmer. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Lunch, more like,” Jack said, smiling at Phryne, who sent him a narrow-eyed look for his cheek.

“ _Breakfast_ would be lovely, Mr. B, thank you.” She moved to sit beside Jack, gratefully taking the coffee cup that Mr. Butler gave her and holding it in two hands as she sipped. “What are you doing today, Jack?”

“So far, it’s looking as if I’ll have an actual day off.” He knocked lightly on the table as he spoke, a slight smile quirking his mouth. “I’ve already spent time in your garden—I think I might go spend time in mine.” He caught a glimpse of the tiny frown that furrowed her brows at the statement. “Unless you had something else in mind?”

“No, not at all,” she replied lightly, “I was just looking forward to lazing around the house.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” He reached out to stroke her hair into smoothness, and she leaned into the caress before straightening as Mr. Butler put a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon in front of her.

“As if you could, Jack!” She flashed a smile at him. “You’ll come back this evening?”

“I’d love to.” He spread jam onto his scone and took a bite, his eyes fluttering at the flavors. Mr. Butler was indeed a wizard of gastronomy.

“Good.” She ate a bite of her own toast and glanced at him. “If I feel like it, maybe I’ll bring you lunch in an hour or two.”

“You’re always welcome, but that doesn’t sound like lazing around to me. And I’m afraid you’d have to get dressed, or I might be forced to arrest you for indecency.” He winked at her as she wrinkled her nose at him.

“Hmmm, would that involve handcuffs, Jack?” Her voice was a murmur that stroked over him.

Jack smiled and leaned toward her, his voice just as quiet. “That could probably be arranged, Miss Fisher.”

She grinned, dipping her toast in her egg yolk. “Sounds like something that deserves further investigation, inspector.”

Jack waggled his eyebrows at her and popped the last piece of scone into his mouth. “It will have to wait, though. I have a garden to tend.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “If you come with lunch, wonderful, but either way, I’ll be back in a few hours.” He glanced over at Mr. Butler. “Thank you for a lovely tea, sir.”

“Of course, inspector.”

Jack noticed that the smile Mr. Butler turned on him was just as warm as the one he’d aimed at Phryne. It made him happy, somehow, that Phryne wasn’t the only one who welcomed his presence at Wardlow. With a return smile, he shrugged on the tweed jacket he wore with his rough gardening clothes. He lifted a hand in a wave as he headed out the kitchen door, whistling.

*****

Phryne watched him go, strangely unsettled. She wished that he wasn’t going so far away to tend his garden. She hadn’t liked it when he’d named their gardens “hers” and “his”—the garden at Wardlow felt like it belonged to him. He’d been tending it almost since their return from Hermannsburg, and it felt _right_ somehow that he do so.

It felt right that he was with her nearly every night, as well, and on those nights they spent apart, she felt his absence keenly. The few weekends that they’d used his small bungalow to get away from Wardlow had been lovely, but in general, she liked it best when he was here at Wardlow with her. She was tired of their habit of asking whether they’d be together in the evening. She wanted it to be _understood_ , that he just… came home at the end of the day.

She stilled for a moment, thinking that last thing through farther. She wanted Jack to be here, with her, all the time. She wanted Wardlow to be his home. So what did that mean? Would he be able to just move in, or would he need marriage first? Was she willing to marry him if it came to that? She took a contemplative bite of toast, chewing slowly.

But what if he didn’t want to move in at all? What if he preferred having his own home to go back to? She swallowed past the lump this thought created in her throat, reaching for her coffee to wash the toast down. She shook her head slightly, going back to the thought of what it would be like to have Jack living here, with her. To know that he’d be here when she came home or that she’d welcome him at the end of a long day.

“Are you all right, miss?” Mr. Butler was looking at her with a slightly worried frown.

“Do you know, Mr. B,” Phryne said slowly, “I think I am.” She raised her eyes to meet his, a smile dawning on her face. “But I’m going to need your help.”

An hour and a half later, Phryne parked the Hispano outside Jack’s bungalow. She took a moment to check her face and the tilt of her red hat in the car’s mirror, then climbed out, knowing that the red-and-black outfit she wore looked particularly good on her. Jack looked up from where he was deadheading roses in his front garden to smile at her.

“Hello, Miss Fisher,” he called in his deep voice.

“Hello, Jack! I’ve brought you lunch.” She moved around to open the boot and he came through the gate to assist her, pulling off his gardening gloves and tucking them into a pocket. Phryne grinned at him as he stepped close and inhaled his scent, all clean sweat and man. He had left off his pomade today, and his hair curled damply against his brow; the sleeves of his soft three-button, long-sleeved shirt were pushed up to reveal his strong forearms, and the top two buttons of the shirt hung open to show the base of his throat and the top of his chest.

He smiled warmly at her, leaning in to drop a kiss on her cheek before lifting the picnic basket with one hand on the handle, the other bracing the side.

“Good lord, how much is in here?” His eyebrows showed his surprise in a way the rest of his face rarely did—so controlled, her Jack.

“Well, there’s enough for me too,” she said, shrugging. “And you have been working hard this morning.” Closing the boot, she tucked a hand under his elbow and let him lead her into the house, where he set the basket on the table.

“Just let me wash up a bit.” He rubbed his hands together and wiped his brow.

“Don’t worry on my account,” Phryne said, coming close to set her hands on his hips and kiss him deeply on the lips now that they were away from prying eyes. When she lifted her mouth, she practically purred. “I like you sweaty.”

“Do you now?” Jack’s hands slid to cover her bottom as he kissed her again.

“Mmm, very much, Jack,” she replied against his mouth.

Jack tugged her close as he swept his tongue between her lips; she returned the kiss, her arms sliding around his waist. After a few minutes, they broke apart, panting. Jack looked over at the kitchen table.

“I think that’s sturdy enough, don’t you?”

Phryne laughed. “Oh definitely. Though we should eat first.” She stroked a hand around to press it against his heart. “We’ll need our strength.”

“Spoilsport,” he said softly, kissing her quickly before loosening his hold.

Phryne lifted a hand to wipe the lipstick off his mouth. With a squeeze of her waist, he turned and moved down the hall to wash up for lunch.

“Oh, I meant to tell you, I heard from Simon yesterday,” he called as he walked down the hall.

“Did you? How is he doing? How’s Ned?” As Phryne spoke, she quickly unpacked the basket, first setting out the two place settings Mr. Butler had included. She pulled out a plate of the ham sandwiches Jack loved, a thermos of chilled juice, and two bowls containing thick slices of apple cobbler.

“They’re both going to be coming into town next month for Alinga’s gallery opening, and I think I can talk Rodg into coming down from Sydney as well.” She could hear the satisfaction in his voice at the thought of being with his friends again even over the sound of the water running in his sink.

“Oh, that’s lovely! I can’t wait to meet Rodger. And Alinga will be thrilled to have someone from home there.” Phryne had shown the art she’d purchased in Hermannsburg to a friend of hers who owned a gallery in Melbourne, and that friend had reached out to get a full show organized. Alinga and her grandsons would be traveling to Melbourne for few days around the show’s opening—although she seemed to be excited about having her art in a gallery, she had told Phryne that she wasn’t fond of the city, so they wouldn’t stay too long. “We should throw a dinner party, don’t you think?”

“That’s a good idea.” The water shut off. “I’m looking forward to seeing them all.”

“So am I!” As a final touch to their lunch spread, Phryne laid a small box atop Jack’s place and sat, her heart racing. She crossed her legs; when she noticed that her hands were trembling, she laced her fingers together and laid them in her lap. With a start, she realized she still wore her hat and coat, and she hurried to go hang them in the front hall. She arrived back at the kitchen door side by side with Jack.

He waved her through, then stopped. “What’s this?”

Phryne seated herself, laying her napkin on her lap. Her nerves had gone as suddenly as they’d appeared.

“Open it, Jack,” she said, pouring them each a glass of juice.

Jack sat down and lifted the box. He shook it lightly, meeting her eyes with his puzzled ones. “It’s not my birthday,” he said as he worked the top off the box. “And I don’t remember doing anything that would warrant a present. Is it—” He broke off, looking at the contents of the box.

Reaching in, he lifted out the shiny brass key. “Phryne?” His eyes darted between the key and her face, no doubt trying to suss out the meaning of this gift.

“It’s to Wardlow, Jack.” Her voice was calm, and she held his eyes. “I realized this morning that today is how I’d like to start every day—not the sex, necessarily, though that was particularly nice.” Her voice was dry by the end of the statement, and her mouth twitched into a small smile.

He huffed out a laugh, his hand wrapping tightly around the key as he watched her, quietly letting her speak.

“But waking up next to you, coming down to sit beside you at the kitchen table—that feels right to me.” She blew out a breath. “I’d like it very much if you were to make Wardlow your home. With me.”

Jack looked at her, his mouth open, and Phryne bit her lip. This was the part where he was supposed to say “Yes, of course” and kiss her, but he did nothing. She hurried into speech again.

“I don’t know if you’d need marriage to be comfortable with that, and if you did, I would seriously consider it, because if there was any man that I would marry, it’d be you, Jack. And I wouldn’t want whatever arrangement we came to to cause any difficulties for you, professionally, so if—”

“Phryne.” Jack’s voice was hoarse, and he laid a hand over hers where she was twisting her fingers together in her lap again. She stopped talking, pressing her lips together hard.

“Phryne,” he whispered again, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he moved closer so that his other hand could come up to cup her cheek, the metal of the key warm from the heat of his body.

He leaned in then and kissed her, his mouth warm on hers. Her eyes fluttered shut as the flavor of him flooded through her.

“Jack,” she whispered, lifting one hand to grasp his wrist and opening her eyes to look at him.

He rested his forehead against hers and smiled. She laughed, relief shuddering through her as she slid her arms around his neck. Jack leaned back, pulling her to sit on his lap and wrapping her in his arms as he kissed her again.

“I would love to make Wardlow my home. With you,” he said softly when they finally broke apart.

“Oh, thank god,” she said. “Mr. Butler’s been clearing space for your things since you left this morning.”

“Awfully certain of my answer, were you?” There was laughter in his voice, and her smile flashed in return.

“Hopeful, really.” Her voice was soft, and she dropped her eyes to the hollow of his throat. “You know that I don’t believe in making promises I can’t keep, so I can’t promise you forever.” Her fingers stroked around his neck to touch him there, tracing the curve of bone.

“I would never ask you for more than you were willing to give me,” Jack said, and she could feel his voice in her fingertips.

She nodded, her eyes coming back to his. “I know, Jack. And that is why I’m willing to give you so very much.”

He lifted a hand—not the one still holding the key; she could feel that against her side—to push her hair away from her face.

“I don’t need marriage.” His blue eyes were serious as they traced over her face, following the path his fingers took as they stroked down her temple and across her cheekbone to cup her jaw. “If you decide that you do, we can discuss it, but I wouldn’t want you to feel shackled to me. I prefer knowing that you stay with me because it’s where you want to be.”

“And I do, Jack.” Phryne flattened her hand against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart thudding against her palm. “I can’t imagine my future without you in it.”

“God, Phryne,” he whispered, and kissed her again, his mouth hard and nearly frantic on hers, his hand on her cheek sliding into her hair to cup the back of her head.

She wrapped both arms around him again and kissed him back, joy filling her. When he tucked an arm under her knees and stood with her in his arms, she squeaked in surprise and then laughed, throwing her head backward in delight.

“Lunch can wait,” he said, grinning as he maneuvered them through the kitchen door and down the hall to his bedroom. “I feel the need to mark this occasion with a ravishing.”

“Hmmm, mine or yours?” Her voice was light as he laid her gently on the bed.

“Ours, I should think, Miss Fisher,” he said, and he proceeded to prove his point.


End file.
